


No Fear of Depths

by thestrangehistorian



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Desert Island Fic, FACE Family, M/M, Mermaids, Rating May Change, Rating has changed, References to Drugs, lmao whoops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2018-11-30 22:14:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11472747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestrangehistorian/pseuds/thestrangehistorian
Summary: Arthur Kirkland is captain of Elizabeth's Revenge, on her maiden voyage to capture Francis Bonnefoy, a notorious pirate who has ransacked every port from Alexandria to Kingstown. But as he finally catches up, a hurricane strikes the Caribbean and both ships are plunged into the depths.As he sinks beneath the waves, Arthur sees a vision - a face he thought he would never see.He wakes up a few days later, stranded on a deserted island, surrounded by cunning merfolk and with none other than Captain Bonnefoy for company. Arthur will have to confront his demons - past and present - if he's to make it out alive.





	1. PROLOGUE - The Voice on the Wind

The crew of _Elizabeth’s Revenge_ were skittish that night, as a full moon rose over the calm Caribbean Sea. It was her maiden voyage, and  _Elizabeth_  had seemed a thing of staggering beauty over the turquoise waters of the island ports, a shining example of British naval superiority. They were in high spirits, chasing the _Rose of Marseilles_ – but the closer they got to that notorious pirate ship, the more ominous the signs became. They were just a day's journey away from the French pirates now, and the winds had died, the sea stilled, waters glistening like an emerald beneath the ship. And stranger still – the voices.

“A woman,” insisted their cabin boy, who was all of fifteen. “I swear, I’ll swear on the Bible, I heard her singing.”

He told the story at dinner, and the older members of the crew all laughed in his face.

“Probably one of the painted whores on the Rose!”

“You sure it was a woman’s voice, boy?” the first mate asked, leering. “Because I hear that the frogs like all sorts!”

They roared with laughter. But the poor boy still looked pale.

“Actually… it sounded a bit like my mum.“

"Leave the boy alone,” said the navigator sourly, when the first mate’s faction practically doubled over howling at this. “We’ve been out at sea for over a month now. Who’s to say that he didn’t hear his mother’s voice? Homesickness does a funny thing to the brain.”

“Come off it,” said a fellow with a thick black beard. “Weren’t you the one swearing you saw a mermaid the other day?”

The navigator’s sallow cheeks colored.

“I acknowledge that it may have been a trick of the light.”

“You put salt in the corners of your cabin!”

“A – a perfectly reasonable precaution against an unknown force!”

“Unknown force, my arse,” said the first mate, sneering. “Admit that you godless pagans still believe in fairytales and get it over with. Go on, do it.”

The cabin boy seemed to muster his courage. “If the captain were here, he’d tell you. He’d believe what I said. I’m not crazy.”

“Well, the captain’s not here, idiot,” said the first mate, scowling suddenly. “He’s up to his eyeballs in an ale tankard, if you’re looking for him.”

A low rumble of discontent ran its way through the crew.

The cabin boy turned to the navigator with wide eyes. “Is it true that Captain Kirkland lost his wife and child before he joined up and that’s why he’s always so –” He trailed off, uncertainly. In the minds of the sympathetic, they recalled the captain’s penchant for working long hours, barely sleeping, his intense desire to perfect and protect the ship, and the way he’d ensured extra stocks of alcohol so that his drinking wouldn’t cut into their rations.

The navigator pursed his lips.

“Well, there are certainly some rumors…”

“Rumors,” the first mate scoffed. “How old you think Kirkland is, eh? Thirty-five? Spent most of his damned life in the navy. He’s got no family, you hear me? The navy’s gone to shit in the last decade, they’ll take anyone – even a drunk off the streets.”

His friends nodded in agreement.

The cabin boy said boldly, “He was good enough to get this ship.”

“And some ship it is.” The first mate scoffed. It was clear that the reminder had gotten under his skin. “ _Elizabeth’s Revenge._ Sounds more like a pirate ship than _Rose of Bloody Marseilles_.”

“Well,” said the navigator coolly, taking the cabin boy by the shoulder and pushing him up from the table. “If it’s any consolation, you won’t be working here forever. And when you have your own ship, you can name her whatever you please. Good night, sir.”

He led the boy out of the mess hall – and a good thing, too. The first mate was not to be crossed.

If it’s any consolation, the cabin boy was right. If Arthur Kirkland had joined his crew for dinner that night, he would’ve put a stop to the conflict straight away. But the first mate was also right: Instead of eating, Arthur had locked himself in his cabin and was halfway through a tankard of ale, thoroughly and completely intoxicated.

Arthur was a mostly harmless drunk, at least when he was alone. Put him around other people, and he tended to talk – to get emotional, to cry or throw punches. And the moonlight did a curious thing to his head. He, too, had heard the singing in the distance. And he did not for one moment believe it was one of the Rose’s whores.

That voice - it sounded like _her_.

It seemed that no matter what he did, he could not escape it. Sixteen years had passed and he still thought of her voice most of all. Arthur had forgotten the feel of her long black hair between his fingers, forgotten the taste of her lips, forgotten the way she'd fit in his arms. But he remembered her voice - sneering, laughing, screaming, and singing. He could not escape the memories no matter what he did.

Drink was the only thing that helped. He would hurt like hell tomorrow, and he knew it. He would make himself a fool in the eyes of his crew. But ale would drown out the voice on the wind, and at the moment, that was all Arthur cared about. He refilled his cup from the barrel and drained it in a single gulp.

He’d only ever heard his wife sing one time – in all the three years that they knew each other; in all their brief, disastrous marriage. They had been lying together in bed in their one-room flat, Arthur's head pillowed against her shoulder. Her voice was smoky and soft, reverberating in her chest, as loud as a heartbeat. Arthur swore he'd never heard something so beautiful before. But he’d been high on opium then, so he would never know if she’d meant it or not.

 _My heart is pierced by cupid_  
_I disdain all glittering gold_  
_There is nothing can console me_  
_But my jolly sailor bold_

It was possible that she’d never loved him, of course. Very possible, given what happened next…

Arthur refilled his glass again, sank into his desk chair, and knocked it back.

The ale went straight to his already-swimming head, tilting the room. He forced himself to remain upright, fingers tightening against the roots of his straw-colored hair. The pain barely reached him in this state, and yet he still remembered.

She’d wept when he figured out about the baby. She had always been fearless, cold as a knife's edge and yet she'd cried in front of him that day. She’d called herself stupid – a whore. (The same words her father used to use on the days he’d beat her bloody; Arthur needed another drink to remember all of that.) They were seventeen and they’d just broken into a pub’s private back rooms. She’d been holding herself oddly for some time now, covering her stomach. Arthur wasn’t stupid – even drunk or high, he was sharp as a tack – but her tears startled him more than the news did.

“This is –”

“Horrible? The worst mistake we’ve ever made?”

“Fantastic!” Arthur said, grinning. “The best news I’ve had all week!”

And it was, it really was.

The glass slammed down over the maps. Moonlight poured into the open windows – no breeze, but still the voice floated in…

 _My heart is pierced by cupid_  
_I disdain all glittering gold_  
_There is nothing can console me_  
_But my jolly sailor bold_

Oh, and he’d tried and tried. Arthur tried to do the right thing. He’d begged for scraps of gold to make a ring, arranged a ceremony with a real priest. He got an apprenticeship at a bookshop, and worked in a pub during the nights so that he could make extra money. He found a flat for them – tiny, one room. No place to hide when things got bad, and they always did.

There was no good explanation for Arthur’s anger at the world, back in his youth. Maybe it had something to do with being small and skinny and believing in fairies. Maybe it had something to do with being smarter than every one of the kids who used to pick on him. Maybe it had to do with the fact that he never got along that well with his brothers and his mother wasn’t always around to break up the fights. Maybe it had to do with the fact that his father had died with a bottle in his fist. Maybe it had to do with the easy access to cheap spirits and drugs, or the stink of the river and the smog from factories on the East End.

Whatever he had that poisoned his mind, his wife had it worse.

When they fought, it was bitter and world-breaking. Neither of them knew how to properly apologize and so they would drink until they forgot why they’d been angry in the first place. She was not suited to being a housewife; she grew more miserable by the day.

 _My heart is pierced by cupid_  
_I disdain all glittering gold_  
_There is nothing can console me_  
_But my jolly sailor bold_

Arthur barely swallowed the next mouthful; his whole body had gone light and numb. He felt very sleepy all of a sudden, but he could not escape her voice…

It was summer when the baby came, a scorching afternoon in early July. Arthur summoned a midwife they knew and waited out in the hallway while the work was done. Oh, but that voice tormented him still… the way she had screamed and screamed…

He’d put his head in his hands, covered his ears, and he could not block it out.

It went on for hours.

When she finally fell silent, the midwife let him back in the room.

They’d already covered her with a sheet and though Arthur hadn’t eaten since yesterday night, he immediately turned and vomited from the sight of all the blood in the bed.

The midwife was washing her hands in a basin of water – and that was all red, too.

But the baby had lived, if only for a little while.

Tears rolled down Arthur’s cheeks as he put his head down on his desk. The map’s starched paper scratched his forehead, the thick air settled over, finally drowning out the voice of his deceased wife but it was too late; Arthur was choking.

His son was too small. That was the first thing he noticed. Too small and blotchy, like he’d been bruised all over. The midwife had wrapped him up in blankets but Arthur insisted on holding him. He’d sat in the chair in the corner and cradled the little bundle against his chest.

“He’s not crying,” Arthur had said, in a strangled voice. “Babies are supposed to cry when they’re born but he’s not – why isn’t he crying? Why isn’t he crying?”

The midwife had tried to warn him. But Arthur had loved his child from the moment he knew of its existence. And when he finally went still and silent, when that baby boy finally departed this world, he took the better part of Arthur’s heart with him.

Arthur didn’t remember much of the next few days.

Eventually, his older sister Maura discovered him curled up behind a trash heap in an alley behind some dingy pub. It was a week before Arthur was deemed fit to get off bed rest and another before he was allowed to rejoin society. His brothers begging him, ordered him, convinced him to move on. But there was no place left to go but westward, into the New World, the blank edges of the map.

As a child, Arthur had always wanted to be a pirate. It had seemed so terribly romantic. Swashbuckling rogues, with the salty wind in their hair, the gray and grime of civilization at their back, and nothing but clear blue seas ahead. Finding treasure chests on tropical islands, dodging the law - freedom, absolute freedom.

But people don’t always get what they want.

That night, the navigator poured extra salt in the corners of his room, and the cabin boy prayed for protection. Arthur fell into a deep but uneasy sleep. And the first mate went out onto the deck to inspect the rigging - and when he glanced over the edge of the ship, he saw a pair of bright blue eyes staring back at him.

He started in spite of himself. 

Suddenly, the winds changed and he heard it - a woman's voice, singing sweetly, beckoning them forward into the pearly moonlight...

_My heart is pierced by cupid_

_I disdain all glittering gold_

_There is nothing can console me_

_But my jolly sailor bold..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOY HOWDY DO I LOVE ME SOME PIRATE AUS~
> 
> Updates may be slow to come but I hope that if you like the fic, you can stick with me! Happy reading!!


	2. The Eye of the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writer life is struggling on how to write someone waking up from a hangover for a month and then writing an entire sea battle in the two hours before you go to class for the day.

By morning, the clear skies and calm seas of yesterday were nothing but a dream. A thick cover of pale gray clouds rolled over the Caribbean, and waves propelled _Elizabeth_ ’s _Revenge_ forward, rocking her hull gently back and forth as they set off into the morning.

“MAN OVERBOARD!”

Crewmen who had previously meandered about their morning routines burst into action. Half the assembled men rushed to the bow of the ship, where an older bearded crewman was pointing, aghast, into the steel-colored waves.

“Where is he? Can anyone see him?”

“Who’ve we lost?”

“Move, let me through, I said –”

The first mate shoved his way to the railing and peered into the expanse of ocean. His sharp eyes scanned the depths, searching for any sign of a drowning crewman. But the waters were clear – there was only the wide-eyed, grey-bearded washman and his shaking fingers, pointing at nothing.

“Well, where is he?” demanded the first mate, exasperated. “Who went over the side?”

Murmurs of confusion and halfhearted shrugs.

“God fucking damn it,” said the first mate. “IS EVERYONE ACCOUNTED FOR?”

There were a few answering shouts of “AYE, SIR!” With most of the crew assembled, it was quite clear that none of them were missing. The first mate scowled, seizing the elder crewman by his collar and shaking him furiously.

“What the blood hell was that about? No one’s overboard, you idiot?”

“But –” the bearded man stammered. “I didn’t lie, sir! I saw him – in the water –”

“Who, then?” The first mate growled, “Answer me!”

“A boy – young! H-he had freckles –”

Several heads swiveled to gaze at the freckled cabin boy, who looked dumbfounded by the comparison.

“Blond!” the old man added quickly, “Like the captain, sir!”

“You think the captain jumped overboard?” The first mate abruptly sneered. “Well, Godspeed to him, in that case!”

“N-no, sir. No, sir, no – th-this boy, much too young – but the resemblance, sir, was there… except, I think, the eyes. Bright blue eyes, this boy had – very clear and d-dis-dist –”

“Distinctive,” said the first mate.

The old man nodded furiously. “Yes, sir! That’s just what I was thinking, sir. I saw him, he was right there, sir, I’ve got no other excuses –”

“Trick of the light.”

The crew sensed that the situation had suddenly changed. The first mate dropped his bewildered captive, looking unusually pensive. He didn’t even bother to examine the waters for signs of the mystery, missing boy or make any mockery of their establishment.

“Excuse me?” and “What is it, sir?” were heard as the first mate took a deep breath and clenched a scarred first.

“Back to work!” he barked, sending the men scurrying away from the bows. “Nothing to see here, you bloody bastards, back to your stations!”

The wind ran over the decks, carrying with it the faint sound of laughter.

And for the rest of the morning, the first mate tended to his duties with furious vigor but refused to look out at the water.

* * *

Arthur woke all at once, felt his stomach heave, and lunged blindly for the bin at his bedside so that he wouldn’t vomit right into his bedsheets. His head throbbed, like someone had carved out his skull and now his brain was rattling freely around in its cage. He groaned and flopped over onto his back, relieving the pressure on his chest somewhat.

Someone was knocking at his cabin door – the sound that had woken him.

“Sir? It’s me.” The cabin boy, of course. “May I come in, Captain?”

Arthur groaned again, hoping some coherent words may their way out as well.

The door creaked open as the ship rolled gently. Arthur put an arm over his face, shielding his eyes. The wind whistled keenly above deck, allowing a breath of fresh air to relieve the smell of vomit and booze in the room.

His cabin boy approached the bedside, bearing a tray of bland-looking crackers and oatmeal. God bless the cook, thought Arthur, since any real food would be wasted on him in this state. _Elizabeth_ was in motion and he would have to make do – to be ready, when the time came.

“Thank you, lad,” Arthur muttered, taking one of the crackers without sitting up. “Leave the tray on the desk, if you would.”

The boy obeyed quickly, nearly tripping himself in his haste. He was too tall for his age – about fourteen, perhaps older. He barely had control of his land-legs, let alone his sea-legs. He had flaming red hair the likes of which Arthur had scarcely seen before. Actually, he looked a bit like Niall in this light. Niall and Maura, the twins, a pair of the Devil’s spawn. Arthur closed his eyes against the torrent of unwanted memories. He hadn’t spoken to any member of his family in years.

“Before you go,” Arthur said, “has anything happened that I should know about?”

The cabin boy blinked, halfway to the door.

“I’m sorry, sir?”

“Last night whilst I was absent. Has there been any news of _the Rose_?”

“N-n-no, sir. Very ordinary. Nothing strange happened at all.”

There is nothing can console me but my jolly sailor bold. Voices on the wind, the ghost of that woman in his dreams – hah! Perhaps Arthur really was going mad, after all.

“Very well. What’s our heading, boy?”

“S-sir?”

Arthur lifted his arm from his face and fixed him with as stern a gaze as he could manage while hungover. “You heard me. I asked you to describe our heading.”

The cabin boy bit his lip.

“I – I don’t know, sir.”

“Don’t lie to me, boy. Describe the conditions and trajectory of my ship.”

“I can summon the first mate, if you’d like a full report.”

“The devil take my first mate,” said Arthur. “If that man had twice as many brains as he thinks he does, he’d be half as smart as you. Now answer your captain when he asks you a question. Report.”

The cabin boy’s face went as red as his hair but Arthur was in no mood to let him walk out of this one. He waited for the boy to compose himself.

“Conditions have changed since yesterday,” said the boy slowly, thoughtfully, “and some of the men are worried about it being hurricane season. But the wind is in our favor now, so if we continue our course, we’ll reach the Rose within a day. And after that, accounting for damages and spoils, it may be five or six days until we reach the nearest port. Our provisions will surely last us, and as long as we make use of the wind, we should be safe from anything.”

“Aye. And what of the Rose? She’s following the same headings as we are, you know.”

“Yes. But she’s heavier than us, and still damaged after the scuffle with the Endeavor at Port Royal. She’ll be low on supplies and ammunitions, and her crew will be tired. Not like us. Provided that we can catch her – and we will – we should have no trouble taking the ship. Uh, sir.”

Arthur closed his eyes and nodded. But the motion rattled his head, sent his stomach churning. He seized the bin a second time and held it to his face.

“I – I have water, sir! Right here!”

How pathetic, Arthur thought, as the boy brought him a cup of fresh water with lime and held it to his parched lips. Some captain he made. But this cabin boy – what an officer he would be, some day. Damned if Arthur could ever remember his name. It seemed now that the only names he remembered belonged to the ghosts of his past.

And “Francis Bonnefoy,” of course.

“Good lad,” Arthur croaked, sinking back into his pillows. “Don’t tell anyone that I’ve taken ill. Tell the navigator to stay the course. Let me know the instant that anything happens, understand?”

The cabin boy nodded. “Yes, sir!”

“If anyone asks what I’m up to tell them –” Arthur faltered, groaning again. “Tell them I’m darning my bloody socks or something – wait, no, not that. Just – tell them I’m not to be disturbed!”

“Of course, sir.”

When the door closed, Arthur was alone with his aching head. If his calculations were right – and they always were – they would catch the _Rose_ by tomorrow morning, if they didn’t manage to catch her tonight. He needed to rest. He needed to be ready, no matter the odds. If there was one thing he’d learned in his years at sea, it was to always expect the unexpected.

* * *

Francis Bonnefoy’s list of crimes was long and varied; whenever Arthur needed to remind himself that he wasn’t totally despicable, he ran them over in his head. It was good for him to have a concrete mission, something solid to focus on. They would be rewarded after they dragged the pirates back to London. Rewards usually meant a few weeks of leave, for the men to visit their families, but Arthur would probably spend those days in an opium den. He liked to think that this time he would do right and live as he should. That he wouldn’t bring shame on the King’s entire navy by squandering his “reward.” But Arthur never did well when he was left on his own. He needed routines and work. He needed familiar things.

No, the real reward was when he would see Bonnefoy hang. Arthur’s reward was to know that he was delivering justice in an unjust world.

Bonnefoy had gotten his start at a young age, only nineteen when he first fled from his native Marseilles. From there, he sailed to Singapore, where he’d made a grand entrance into the criminal world by robbing and killing a local lord, burning one of the city’s most prominent brothels to the ground. (But not, the stories noted, before thoroughly sampling the establishment’s pleasures.)

After, he commandeered a ship and a crew and made his way west over several years, sacking settlements of every nation, drinking himself sick on the islands, trading away priceless artifacts as if they were nothing to him while hoarding the best pieces for himself. It was said that he was a great lover of art and history, that he collected books and statues of long-forgotten goddesses.

The worst part about him was that he was thoroughly unpredictable. He passed over larger outposts to prey on smaller, unguarded targets. So far, he’d been nigh impossible to catch. Men from the Dutch East India Company were the first to put out rewards for Bonnefoy’s head.

But for those who paid mind to economics, it was hard not to admire such a shrewd man. Bonnefoy’s pirating turned massive profits; he decimated his rivals with business as much as he did with cannon fire. Those who survived his raids spoke, curiously, of his generosity: He always offered prisoners a chance to join his crew before he dispatched them to the depths. He paid his crew well – paid even higher for them to keep quiet about their tenures on his ship should they decide to leave – and was repaid with unwavering loyalty.

But no longer. Bonnefoy’s fifteen years of terror had finally come to an end. Shortly after Arthur’s promotion to captain, a former crewman of the Rose had approached several Royal Navy officers in a pub and offered them information on Bonnefoy’s next targets. In exchange for a lump sum of gold and a position at their table, the man revealed everything. It was easy – too easy – a natural first mission for the young, rookie Captain Kirkland.

At first, even Arthur had doubted his ability to bring in such a notorious pirate. But just off the coast of Ireland, they had had their first sight of the Rose. Elizabeth had merely been stopping for a resupply but it seemed that they had missed Bonnefoy by hours, at most – but that was when Arthur knew it was possible to bring him in. If he could let his enemies afford to get so close, then that meant he wasn’t infallible. He’d made one mistake by allowing Arthur to glimpse his ship, to know that their information was accurate.

And over the course of their journey, through storms and setbacks and scuffles and turnabouts, Bonnefoy had made other mistakes. Now at last the odds were in Arthur’s favor; the pirate was finally running out of cards to play.

Still – Arthur thought, as the winds and the waves rocked him back into a dreamless sleep – he had to admit that the man was a worthy adversary. Maybe even worthy enough to offer up a toast when they hanged him from the gallows.

* * *

As evening fell, Arthur remerged from his cabin. _Elizabeth’s_ crew had retired early on his orders, to prepare for the coming offensives. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with salt and sea spray. The sea could always clear his mind. Though the sky was black and starless, and the wind were high, the familiar creaking of the hulls, the fluttering of the sails – the scent of the sea, the sudden lightness of the wind – it soothed him, even knowing how dangerous it all could be. Even with a storm brewing, he felt more at ease aboard this ship than he ever had on land. 

And a storm was coming and of that there was no doubt.

He was still a bit hungover and could only imagine how he must look. Hair allowed to grow wild, glassy eyes tinged red that nearly matched his coat, a pallor to his already pale cheeks. He felt more like the pale and washed up imitation of an officer of the British Royal Navy – and far, far from a pirate. What it must be like to have that kind of confidence. To boldly pursue the horizon, to take what you wanted, to do anything and everything you desired.

Arthur only permitted himself a moment to think like that. Of course, it was all useless dreaming.

His navigator stood at the wheel, looking sourer and more anxious than usual.

“Captain,” he said, his relief obvious despite the faint sarcasm in his voice. “At last.”

Arthur nodded coolly, saying nothing – mainly because he’d completely forgotten the navigator’s name, as per usual. “How’s our heading?”

“The weather has taken a turn for the worse, I’m afraid. My calculations were off. The storm is much closer than I originally suspected.”

“But can we weather it?”

“I believe so, sir. We’ve certainly weathered worse than this.”

Arthur nodded. That was all he’d needed to hear. “Has the crew fared well in my absence?”

“Well enough, I suppose,” said the navigator. “Nothing amiss per say.”

“But?”

It was dark but Arthur knew that tone. The cabin boy had been similarly evasive this morning. Something must have happened while he slept.

“Captain, sir,” said the navigator slowly. “I believe that certain members of your crew are… uneasy… about our present course of action.”

Arthur frowned over at him. “What about it? You just said –”

“Not about the storm, sir. It’s about these waters – this place.”

There is nothing can console me but my jolly sailor bold. Arthur swallowed but kept his face a mask of indifference. “Oh?”

“Several members of your crew are claiming to have heard voices and seen faces in the water. Just this morning, we had an incident where poor old Mr. Thomas swore that someone had gone overboard when in reality, the crew had been below decks for most of the evening. Even your first mate seems on edge. Sir,” the navigator added, almost as an afterthought.

This concerned Arthur for several reasons. For him to hear voices, to see visions of the lost and the fantastical – well, that wasn’t so unusual, especially considering his drinking habits. But the navigator was a man of science. And the first mate was… the first mate. If they were hearing things, even seeing things, that meant something. For the first time, Arthur felt a prickle of anxiety crawl down his neck. He shivered when the wind whistled over him, nearly taking off his feathered hat.

“I see,” said Arthur delicately. “So they believe that the sea is haunted, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.” The navigator’s hand moved and Arthur’s eye was drawn to the sound of beads rattling. To his surprise, he saw that the man was wearing a string of crystal beads and seashells around his wrist. It resembled a rosary but he had no Catholics in his crew.

“What’s that on your arm?”

The navigator pulled his sleeve down immediately.

“Just a harmless trinket, sir.”

Arthur lifted an eyebrow. “I didn’t take you for a religious man.”

“I’m not,” said the navigator. “Sir. No, it’s just – well, it might seem ridiculous to you.”

“Did you know?” Arthur said by way of reply. “I don’t resemble any of my siblings very much. I got my mother’s eyes, thank God, but the rest? I don’t even resemble my father. My brothers were just horrible about it. So when I was seven, I came to the conclusion that I was a changeling and set about trying to find my real, fairy parents. I located an atlas and came to the conclusion that they must be in Wales. Packed myself a lunch and everything. I made it about a mile from home before my sister caught up and beat sense back into me.”

The navigator choked on his own air. “F-forgive me, captain, but what does that have to do with anything?”

Arthur huffed and tried not to roll his eyes. Of course the fool would miss the point. That was what he got for trying be friendly and honest with someone for a change. “Look, man, everyone on this ship knows that you salt your room. I’m saying that whatever your beliefs may be – you’ll receive no judgment from me.”

The navigator was quiet for a moment. Even in the dark, it was easy to see the gratified look on his face.

“I purchased this at our last stop. The function is similar to a rosary, yes, but it is not dedicated to any saint. Rather, to an indigenous goddess of the sea. The ocean mother, if you would.”

Arthur made an interested noise. The navigator continued:

“The woman who sold it to me said that all creatures on this earth were birthed from the ocean – from this one goddess, the mother to us all, whether we be English freemen or African slaves. She warned me to, and I quote, ‘Be mindful of my mother,’ while at sea. Apparently, she heard a rumor which caused her to believe the English don’t train their sailors on how to swim.”

Arthur allowed himself a smile. “Well, not as if we need to, eh? It’s our enemies she should have worried about.”

But the navigator did not relax completely.

“Sir – you can’t really mean to go after the Rose in these conditions. We risk damaging _Elizabeth_ , to say the very least. Not to mention –”

“We’ll stay the course.”

“Captain, are you certain?”

“It’s alright,” said Arthur, and really, given all that had happened, it wasn’t alright. But he was determined to make it so. “Take a rest, would you? Let me man the helm – and warn everyone below decks to be on their guard. If my calculations are as good as yours, we’ve got at least a few hours before we catch up to those bloody pirates.”

“But the storm, sir!” said the navigator, and even as he spoke, there was a low rumble in the distance. “It’s moving too fast. You can’t seriously mean to take the Rose during a hurricane!”

Arthur grinned unexpectedly. “That frog-eating bastard will never see us coming.”

And if any man aboard _Elizabeth’s Revenge_ had doubted the rumors – that Captain Arthur Kirkland was completely and thoroughly mad as a hatter – then those doubts vanished as he took the wheel and raced against the oncoming storm.

* * *

 

 _Elizabeth’s_ crew did not sleep that night. It did not comfort them to know that just out of sight, the Rose of Marseilles was struggling against the crushing towers of water the same as they were. The deck was slick with seawater, the crew struggling and shouting. Arthur grit his teeth against the wind and the rain, sharp as stones when it hit the deck, the bare skin of his face. His blood sang, his hangover a distant memory. Though his crew bellowed and howled as they fought the forces of nature, Arthur heard nothing, felt nothing but the sea.

This was what it felt like to be alive.

* * *

The _Rose of Marseilles_ was splendid ship, elegant and proud even in her damaged state. The Endeavor had damaged on of her sails with cannon fire, and sailors managed to hit several members of the crew with bullets. Still, she braved the storm, wobbling dangerously on the waves but never faltering. But Elizabeth was smaller and faster, and coming up fast. 

“CANNONS AT THE READY!”

Below decks was a frenzy of men, struggling to save the gunpowder from water damage, heaving cannonballs and propping them up so that they wouldn’t roll away as they crested over waves. Even if pistols and rifles were useless, they would still have blades and bayonets.

Arthur yanked the wheel, and _Elizabeth_ groaned as she turned about, lining the canons up with the _Rose_ , well within firing distance.

“FIRE!”

Cracks and booms echoed between the waves – and return fire answered almost instantly.

Arthur swore, but it was lost in the wind. Bonnefoy was sharper than he’d expected. He seized the wheel with both hands and pulled, turning _Elizabeth_ about once again.

Another groan came from the ship as she strained. She was strong, agile – but perhaps the storm had put too much pressure on her.

“Come on, Lizzie,” Arthur said, knuckles whitening. “Come on!”

Lightning snapped and struck the water.

Someone giggled audibly, distantly, the sound high and piercing and all around them.

The _Rose’s_ cannons cracked once more and several of Elizabeth’s crew screamed.

“Come on!” said Arthur. “COME ON!”

“Captain!”

The first mate appeared in his line of sight, haggard and eyes blazing with fury.

“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?” Arthur snapped. “Return to your post!”

“You’re mad,” said the first mate, raising his fist as if he meant to strike his captain down. The flashing of the lightning – it lightened his dark hair and beard, until he could have been Alastair, and for a moment Arthur was seven years old and cowering in a cupboard, hiding from his brothers’ taunting and their raised fists. “Completely fucking mad! You’ll kill us all! You’ll lose your precious ship!”

The idea of losing his ship was unfathomable; it never once crossed his mind. The only thing that mattered was taking down Bonnefoy – to see justice down. To escape the ghosts in his head, the voices on the wind. Arthur’s faith was unsinkable. Lizzie would kill him if he let her die.

Thunder rumbled and the wind slowed, just so.

In the next instant, the rain had died and the sky lightened, though the clouds did not disappear and the waves were as intense as ever. They had a window – just one – and this was all the chance that Arthur needed.

The past was past. There was only one thing that mattered.

He grinned.

“Looks like we’ve hit the eye, gentlemen!” he announced. “This is our chance to strike!”

And he turned away from his first mate and took _Elizabeth_ forward, full speed ahead.

“PREPARE TO BOARD!”

“Mad,” said the first mate, backing away in horror. “You’re fucking insane.”

“Perhaps,” said Arthur, leaning forward. “But when I deliver Bonnefoy to the gallows – what a tale this will make, eh?”

“Mad,” said the first mate again, and might have said something else – a question, is that what this is about? Glory? But Arthur did not hear it. It was not about glory, not in the slightest. The battle would be quick, and the storm would pass just as quickly as it had come. Whatever drove him forward was nameless and primal, and Arthur would not, could not, did not try to fight it. Even if it was senseless and liable to get him killed. So be it.

He drove the ship through the waves, closer, closer, closer.

The wind picked up once more, and it sounded like a cry for help.

 _Lizzie_ , thought Arthur.

The _Rose_ was now close enough that he could make eye contact with the men on decks.

“SWORDS!” he shouted. “EVERYONE, SWORDS!”

There was a great clamor of unsheathed metal and then, the echo of thunder.

Rain came again, suddenly, sheets of it pouring down on them. And so Arthur did not see how the pirates managed it, but suddenly, they were on his deck – not many, just a primary boarding party – and the first mate was down, tackling them to the ground.

Arthur cursed again.

“FIRE AT WILL!” he ordered. “TAKE THE SHIP!”

He drew his own blade, and shouted, “TAKE THE WHEEL!” but no one was listening.

Arthur leapt down onto the deck of his ship, found his balance, and looked up.

The pirates were outnumbered but – as Arthur suspected – these were the crew elites, veterans of fifteen years’ worth of battles. A man with a long, thin mustache was surrounded by four of _Elizabeth’s_ sailors, holding them back with his long, curved blade. Arthur’s own first mate was engaged with two other men, who had tag-teamed them. One of the pirates was a woman with hip-length hair, her strange long coat embroidered with lotus flowers. She held a spear rather than a sword, and made quick work of a gunner, piercing him through the knee to bring him down.

One of the pirates had seized Arthur’s cabin boy by the throat and jabbed a knife into his chest.

It all happened in seconds.

“NO!”

Arthur charged.

The female pirate stood, a look of alarm on her face. She shouted out in warning but by the time her ally looked up, he had Arthur’s sword through his gut.

Arthur pulled it back, and the blood shone in the rain and lightning.

For good measure, he dragged it across the pirate’s throat as the man went down.

The cabin boy lay on the deck, eyes open and lifeless. He looked surprised and scared.

“ _You’re picking out names already? And what in hell makes you think it’s a boy_?” Lizzie’s scornful voice asked in his ear, clear as day.

Arthur had been so sure, so sure.

He could not breathe; he turned, helplessly, searching for a culprit.

The pirates were more numerous now – and among them…

A head of blond hair, tied back with a black ribbon. A long, elaborate blue coat.

Bonnefoy had joined the fray.

Something slammed into the side of his face – the butt of a spear. Arthur’s head swam with color as he hit the deck, his sword rolling from his loosened grip.

Throbbing pain in his cheek – boom! went the cannons, and not Lizzie’s. He knew the sound of Lizzie’s rage. This was the Rose, the bloody pirates firing on him. Something cracked and Arthur’s vision focused on the masts of his ship. One of which had a hole in it now.

The wood creaked and groaned, the sail straining against the wind and pulling it down.

Splinters rained down as the wind screamed around them.

The eye had passed. And now they were trapped.

Arthur lay on the deck in a daze. More pirates were coming aboard now, and his crew was falling. The cannons rocked the ship but somehow, miraculously, the _Rose_ never faltered. Damn Bonnefoy, damn pirates, damn it all. He did not understand. What had he done wrong? He should have had more time. He had been so sure that there would be time.

The first mate had defeated his adversaries, only to find _Elizabeth_ swarming with pirates.

He saw the captain lying face-down on the deck, unmoving.

Rage and fear filled the first mate in equal measure. This was what they all got. The king and his entire damn navy and everyone on this ship – this was their punishment for letting a young drunk take command of such an important mission. The first mate knew there was no choice but to fight on, to pray, to survive. He did not want to die.

“BRACE YOURSELVES, MEN!” he howled, a rallying cry. “FIGHT!”

He lifted his blade, ready.

Then, a young woman’s sweet voice froze him in his tracks.

 _My heart is pierced by cupid_ …

Arthur heard it, too. He lifted his head, and his fingers stretched towards his sword. Lizzie, he thought. Forgive me, forgive me…

 _I disdain all glittering gold_ …

The first mate was seized with terror. It was impossible to tell if anyone else had heard it – he looked around at the waves, his captain struggling to right himself in the midst of the battle – and then he felt a terrible pressure at his back, and a sharp pain in his chest, and when the first mate looked down, there was a blade through his ribs.

 _There is nothing can console me_ …

Arthur’s fingers brushed the hilt of his sword but _Elizabeth_ lurched suddenly in the waves, and the sword slipped out of his grasp. He exhaled, and tried to push himself up, but his body had gone weak and soft. Around him, the pirates and the navy men alike were pausing, mystified. The wind and sea were deafening but her voice carried over it all, lulling all who had boarded _Elizabeth_ into a stupor.

The woman pirate snapped out of it first. She shouted a command and a few men followed her, shouting in fear as they realized what was about to happen.

A legend, a nightmare.

 _Elizabeth’s_ hull cracked again and she trembled, and Arthur knew, instinctively, that this was the sound a ship made before she was broken.

_Oh, Lizzie, I’m so sorry._

The next thing he knew, he was falling across the deck, sliding in the water.

He hit the rail, stopped. Arthur groaned and tried to struggle to his feet, his boots sliding about. The _Rose_ was pulling away, abandoning those crew who had been trapped aboard the doomed ship. A few other men had snapped out of their trances and instead of resuming the fight, were desperately rushing towards the rails, shouting for help. Pirates and Englishmen alike – it no longer mattered who was who. Another fatal groan resounded across the water.

Arthur managed to right himself, clinging to the rails.

At least one of his men had jumped overboard – but the rest seemed too afraid to follow.

Standing there, in the middle of the deck was none other than Bonnefoy himself.

… _there is nothing can console me but my jolly sailor bold._

Renditions of the man had been passed around officer’s meetings for consideration. And none of them had captured his likeness, not precisely. Arthur noticed, curiously, that his blade was entirely clean despite the raging fight they had been in just minutes before – and that he had blue eyes. He was of height with Arthur, and of similar build as well. The once-proud pirate captain stood there on the deck of _Elizabeth’s Revenge_ , watching his _Rose_ sail off into the storm, away from that voice and the monsters in the water.

Perhaps the natives of the New World believed in the ocean’s mercy but Arthur was not naïve enough to think that he deserved mercy or kindness of any sort. His one consolation – he thought, smiling even though he could feel Elizabeth breaking in two – was that despite failing in his mission, he would still serve purpose. Bonnefoy would die on this ship.

The dashing, doomed pirate saw Arthur smiling and his eyes widened slightly as he realized.

There was a sound like the world breaking and Arthur toppled over the rails.

Water was like a brick wall and it knocked whatever breath had been in his lungs out; Arthur gasped and salt rushed in where air should’ve been. He was choking, sinking; he could not breathe. He had never learned to swim at all, despite growing up near the river. His arms and legs, weighed down by his scarlet officer’s coat and his fine black boots, struggled uselessly towards the surface, more out of instinct then out of a genuine desire to survive.

At last, his body accepted what his mind had known from the start.

Arthur kept his eyes open.

He could see the ship breaking above him, pieces of wood slapping the churning surface of the water. But his vision was blurred and tinged with strange color. He was no expert on the process of death by drowning but he supposed that the strange, long tails he caught out of the corner of his eye were just the product of his dying imagination.

Arthur’s vision tunneled and for the first time in years, his mind was clear. He saw Lizzie with her long, jet-colored hair, her eyes like the sea after a storm, such a pure and beautiful blue. In the vision, she was older and happier, and they lived in a little house outside of the city, surrounded by the green hills and the blue skies, no more smog and smoke. Arthur was an officer and his commission provided enough for them to live on comfortably. There were no more ghosts, no more scars, no more fighting against the world. This was the life they should have had.

And their son was grown, a tall and fine young man with Arthur’s hair and face – and even the faint reminder of Arthur’s freckles – but his mother’s eyes. Strange, painful pride swelled in Arthur as he opened his eyes and the vision was lost. He wanted that life more than he could say.

But when he opened his eyes one last time, he found himself face to face with the boy from his vision. The grown-up version of his son.

Arthur was all but gone at this point, the darkness coming in at the corners of his eyes. And all he could think was how glad and surprised he was. Perhaps the New World pagans were right and the ocean really was merciful. He had done nothing to deserve his gift – the sight of his son, as if all the things he’d wanted were possible.

He stretched out a hand and cupped the boy’s cheek. Cold, of course.

Still, Arthur smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALRIGHT Y'ALL!! I swear I'm not dead but I have started school again so updates may be slower than my usual snail's pace!! But I hope you can stick with me because I really do enjoy writing all my stories and I hope you enjoy reading them just as much! 
> 
> And yes, Arthur did name his ship after his late wife. 
> 
> Catch you later!!


	3. The Isle of the Merfolk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, last week: "Hmm, I'm starting school so better warn everybody that updates are going to come slowly from now on! Gotta focus on my homework!"
> 
> Me, this week: "LOL homework? What's that? *opens AO3*"

“Is he alive?”

“Eh, who’s to say? I doubt that lil’ blue would’ve dragged him all this way if he weren’t…”

“Little… what?”

“Wait – wait – wait! Did you to see that?”

“What?”

“I saw his eyes open!”

“Did you really? But how… I saw him go over the side… I was sure that he had…”

* * *

Water in his throat.

Choking.

“Come now, Captain, you must drink something.”

Cool, fresh water. Too much salt on his tongue, in his teeth, straining his throat and his lungs.

“What’s with you? I thought you two were enemies.”

“Hmm.”

“Alright, then. Is it even worth it to try and keep him alive in this state?”

“Well, I suppose it is as you said. He wouldn’t have made it here if it weren’t for no reason… Come now, Captain, that’s it…”

* * *

It was like rising from the bottom of a deep, black lake. 

Arthur came in and out of darkness, unconscious of the passing time.

Sometimes, he mustered a feeling of vague irritation at his situation.

He had been so ready, so ready.

He had heard once, that a good captain should always go down with his ship.

* * *

“It’s been awhile… You really think –”

“I’m certain of it.”

“Honestly, if I were in your shoes, I would’ve let him go.”

“ _You_ said –”

“I know what I said! I mean – just – look, Blue’s got a heroic streak, alright? He’s always doing this, helping turtles that get flipped over and shit. I didn’t actually think that he – that you –” A sigh. “Why do you even care?”

The answer was lost.

* * *

Arthur opened his eyes.

For a moment, he wasn’t sure that he had survived the wreckage after all. With the clear, sapphire sky above him and the lush green foliage, trees weighed down with colorful flowers and strange fruits – it was about as close to “paradise” as any sailor might describe. There was soft white sand beneath his back, and his coat had been bundled up beneath his head as a makeshift pillow. Behind him was a wall of black rock, clear fresh water trickling overhead in a little fall, feeding into a deep, wide pool.

It took considerable effort for Arthur to push himself onto his elbows, to crane his neck and take it all in. His stomach, head, and wrists were bandaged but his chest ached. He suspected a cracked rib or two. The rest of his bones and organs felt in marginally better shape. Other than that, he still wore his boots and his shirt and trousers – but all his finery and his weapons had been taken. He was unarmed, weak, and utterly lost.

Memories of the storm hovered at the forefront of his mind. The crew – the pirates – the song – _my Elizabeth_ –

Behind him, the water stirred.

Arthur started and twisted his head to look.

There was a teenage boy standing in the pool – looking like he’d just emerged from beneath the surface – with wide dark eyes and a head of soft pale curls to match extraordinarily fair skin. He looked surprised and a bit embarrassed to see another person. Arthur could only imagine how he must look right now. Knowing his luck, he had unknowingly disturbed this poor child’s hiding place.

He took a deep breath.

“L –” His voice was hoarse from salt water and lack of use. Arthur coughed harshly, nearly collapsing again. “Listen to me. Don’t – don’t be –” Another coughing fit. His head felt fiery and empty. It had been too long since he last had a drink.

Heaving for breath, he raised himself still further, swaying on his knees. He twisted and turned, nearly fell, grunting with pain and effort. The pool rippled as the boy took a frightened step back, his torso bobbing unevenly as if he were debating on whether or not to sink below the surface and hide.

“– frightened,” Arthur managed. He braced himself on his knees, stretching out a pleading hand towards the boy in the water. “Please. Don’t be scared. Please, I am –”

“Ah, good morning, dear Captain! I was beginning to get worried, you know!”

Arthur froze.

Inexplicably, the boy looked relieved.

He did not turn to look. He wasn’t going to believe his ears, his instincts.

The visitor – who was most certainly not who Arthur suspected he was – said something in French, his voice warm and rich as wine. The boy in the water smiled a bit sheepishly. _Great_ , thought Arthur – this island must be a French colony. Oh, that was just absolutely perfect. That explained everything.

Then, suddenly, the boy came forward and cupped Arthur’s face in his hand.

“Wh –” Arthur started, recoiling from the boy’s cold, wet palm. “What the –”

“Do not be offended, Captain,” said the voice of definitely-not-Francis-Bonnefoy. “He means no harm. I believe that he thinks humans say ‘hello’ by touching.”

Arthur’s already frazzled mind was in danger of shutting down completely.

“What in the name of sanity are you saying?” His lungs shuddered; anger took a lot of energy even when one was in the peak of health. “What is going – what –?”

Arthur hung his head, exhausted.

Immediately, a hand was at his back, applying gentle pressure.

“Now, now, Captain, don’t strain yourself. Just lie back, here…”

Arthur’s fist collided with the Frenchman’s cheek.

The boy in the water made a little, distressed noise as his acquaintance leapt backwards, swearing fluently and clutching the side of his face. Arthur lifted his head to glare, fury simmering in his heart. This really was the worst case scenario. Stranded on a French colony with the bloody pirate lord Francis Bonnefoy. Arthur took a small modicum of satisfaction in seeing that his nemesis had also lost the majority of his effects, including his royal blue coat. He had let down his ash-blond hair and already had stubble on his chin. He looked older now, more rugged but otherwise in perfect health.

Arthur hoped that he’d managed to blacken Bonnefoy’s eye with that punch. It seemed only fair.

“Well,” said Bonnefoy, furiously. “I should have guessed as much! The English never did have any manners.”

“I don’t know what you plan to do with me,” Arthur declared, taking a deep breath and shifting to plant one foot on the ground. “But it won’t work. I can’t be ransomed and I won’t give up any information to you. So if you plan to kill me –”

Bonnefoy rolled his eyes.

“So dramatic,” he said. “Why would I go through all the trouble of saving your life just to kill you when you woke, hmm?”

“How am I supposed to know, you filthy pirate bastard? I am a gentleman of the Royal Navy, I won’t pretend to know what sort of disgusting ideas your frog-mind entertains.”

“Why, Captain, you must be the stupidest Englishman on the face of this planet. And that is quite an accomplishment, for I have known more than my fair share of idiot Englishmen! You have absolutely nothing that could interest me.”

“Then why?” Arthur demanded. “Why didn’t you just let me die?”

Bonnefoy made a huffing sound and straightened up, brushing dirt from his pants. “If I had my way, you would be rotting at the bottom of the sea and good riddance to you. No, Captain, I am not the one who saved you at all.”

“You just –”

“Oh, stop shouting. You’ll scare Mathieu.”

He must have meant the boy. Arthur felt a twinge of guilt against his will. Despite his likely being French, the boy was probably an innocent in all this. He did look a bit soft – and he’d shrunk back into the water, pressing himself nearly against the wall of black stone. Arthur glanced at the boy, who met his gaze apprehensively.

“And who is this boy to you?” asked Arthur, glancing uncertainly at Bonnefoy. “Your son?”

“What? Oh, no, of course not. Mathieu is just what I’ve decided to call him.”

“That’s terribly rude of you. Why don’t you just ask him his own name?”

Bonnefoy looked at Arthur as if he were being stupid on purpose. “Even if he did have one, I doubt it is translatable into English.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

The pirate sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Open your eyes, idiot Captain. Look at him for a moment – just look.”

Annoyed, Arthur nevertheless obeyed. He turned towards Mathieu and gave him another look, up and down. From the tops of his angelic curls to the baby fat in his cheeks, to the way he clutched his arms protectively across his bare chest, to his waist, to –

Oh.

Mathieu’s fair skin abruptly darkened and hardened at the tops of his hips, until it no longer resembled skin at all. In the place where his legs should have been was a long, scaled tail, the same dark violet color as his eyes. Dismayed, Arthur’s eyes ran back up the boy’s chest – to his neck, where his shoulder length curls had initially covered a strange set of flaps like fish’s gills.

It took every ounce of Arthur’s willpower to keep himself upright.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

“Oh, please, do us all a favor and sleep, Captain,” said Bonnefoy, lightly sarcastic. “Don’t force yourself to stay awake on our account.”

“Fuck you!” said Arthur. He inhaled sharply, letting the cool air of their makeshift shelter pierce his head and lungs. A mermaid – merman – thing – a creature straight from the legends of his youth. There was a time in his life where he would have cheered for joy at this knowledge but no longer. He was older, he knew better now. 

_My heart is pierced by cupid... I disdain all glittering gold... there is nothing can console me... but my jolly sailor bold..._

Echoing, rattling around in his mind. His crew heard that angelic voice and started screaming, screamed like Lizzie had screamed when... His head throbbed painfully, and it was all he could do not to groan, to press the memories down into the depths again. This was a curse. Arthur grit his teeth and made to rise. He got halfway before he sank down again.

“What are you doing now, you fool? You’re not strong enough –”

“Don’t!” Arthur snapped, when Bonnefoy took a step forward. The pirate stopped in his tracks, hands outstretched. “Don’t you fucking dare, you bloody frog-eating bastard, you piece of shit, you –”

Bonnefoy rolled his eyes again. “Are you finished?”

“Certainly not!”

Arthur made a second attempt at standing. His body screamed in protest but Arthur shifted, planting both his feet beneath him and rising, slowly, slowly. His head throbbed and he swayed, and nearly fell, but at last he righted himself. Slouched, probably looking like a nightmare, but Arthur managed to remain standing. He took several deep breaths, then carefully, carefully, carefully bent – and picked up his coat.

“I’m getting off this island,” said Arthur. “And if you try to stop me, I will kill you.”

Bonnefoy smirked. “I would absolutely love to see you try.”

* * *

Arthur immediately knew that leaving his cool shelter was a bad idea; once he left the shade of the rocky pool, the humid island air hit him like a brick wall. But his pride would not permit him to turn back. Especially considering that Bonnefoy was still watching.

“Where are you going, Captain?”

“Shut up and let me think!” Arthur snapped back, not looking at him. “I have an excellent sense of direction but I have been unconscious for – er –”

“Three days,” Bonnefoy supplied.

“Yes, thank you – I have been unconscious for three days and was nearly drowned! So you’ll have to forgive me for taking things a little bit slowly.”

“Of course.”

Bonnefoy was mocking him. He didn’t think that Arthur could manage the trek through the jungle. Indignant fury burned in his chest. Arthur swallowed hard, sucked in as much air as he could, and began to walk.

The pirate kept pace behind Arthur, who could feel the man’s eyes boring into him, daring him to make a mistake. To slip up. To show weakness of any kind. And all the while he smiled; Arthur could hear the smile even without turning around, the same way he could feel Bonnefoy’s amusement. But fortunately – or unfortunately – this time, he was out of range of Arthur’s fists. 

“You know, I think you are crazy,” said Bonnefoy cheerfully, after a few long minutes. “Why would you want to leave such a beautiful paradise as this?”

“Is this the kind of thing that passes for paradise in France?” Arthur managed to scoff. “Mad, all of you. This – an island like this is Hell.”

“How do you figure that?”

“The bloody heat,” he muttered, lifting a hand to wipe the sweat from his brows. “For starters.”

“Apologies, Captain, I didn’t catch that!”

“And for another thing!” Arthur continued loudly. He inhaled deeply, praying that he didn't sound strained. “This place – populated with bloody fish-things.”

“You mean - ah, damn - how do you say?Like my Mathieu?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

Bonnefoy dropped his lofty tone now, sounding almost curious. “What do you have against them?”

He wanted to say, _Aside from the fact that they sank my bloody ship and murdered my crew, not to mention half of yours?_  "Don’t you know anything about the merfolk, you stupid frog?”

“Only that they are strange and beautiful.”

Arthur huffed and rolled his eyes, swatting away a low-hanging branch with as much strength as he could spare. “Well, you’re exactly the type of idiotic person that would get lured in by their – their devious scheming.”

“Devious scheming?” Bonnefoy laughed. “How funny! You think that boy back there - he is a schemer to you? But Mathieu is good."

"He's one of _them!_ "

"So what? You barely know him, but I do. He has come to visit me several times in these three days since I came ashore. He’s very smart, yes, but also innocent and sweet.”

“That’s how they all start. Innocent. A mermaid tamed or captured is one thing – but a mermaid angered is liable to drag an innocent sailor to his doom and eat him, down to the bones. They have infamously quick tempers, you know! And as for the men? They use their charm to steal human women from shore. I suppose he’s taken to you because of your stupid girly hair.”

Another laugh. “Now you are just being contradictory on purpose. Tell me, have you ever met a mermaid before?”

“Certainly not! Have you?”

“Well, as I said, I have known Mathieu for three days.”

“And that makes you an expert, eh?”

“As opposed to you?”

“Yes, as opposed to me!” Arthur snarled, swatting another branch. His feet were growing heavy but he could see the line of the beach through the trees now. Luckily, they hadn’t been too far from the shore. “I have been educated in these matters, unlike you!”

Bonnefoy made an outraged noise. “You – what on Earth sort of education could possibly prepare you for dealing with mermaids?”

“A proper one, that’s what.”

“You are just determined to be –”

They had reached the end of the tree line. A long stretch of white sand greeted them, soft and burning beneath the scorching sun. At the shore, the water was clear and bright, but abruptly darkened a few yards out, the clear sign of a reef. The hurricane had long past and the ocean was calm and breezy once again – perfect sailing weather.

And several dozen yards down the beach, someone had launched a sailboat into the water.

Arthur turned and spotted the horror on Bonnefoy’s face.

“Who is that?” he asked, bewildered. “Do you –”

Without answering, the pirate took off at a run through the sand.

“ _Beilschmidt, vous coups de bâtard_!”

Arthur cursed and gave chase.

Running through sand in this heat would’ve been hard enough if Arthur wasn’t weak and injured, if he hadn’t had a splitting headache – he was slow, running on pure adrenaline. Bonnefoy lessened his haste somewhat by tripping and falling flat on his face more than once, but Arthur was struggling too much to even take any joy in it.

The sailboat was small – maybe large enough for four or five people to sit if they hunched their shoulders and squeezed their knees together – and it was manned by only one sailor. There was a thin dock, made of carved wood and tied together with what Arthur had to admit was an admirable strength. For using such rough materials, it had been finely made. Bonnefoy rushed to the end of the dock, which creaked uneasily as Arthur added his weight to it. He had to reassure himself that it, at least, had been sturdy enough to survive the hurricane. 

“BEILSCHMIDT!” Bonnefoy shouted, red-faced with fury. “YOU LYING, TWO-FACED –”

The sailor, Beilschmidt, removed his wide-brimmed hat, revealing a shock of silver-blond hair. His teeth flashed in a wicked grin.

“Welcome back to the land of the living!” he bellowed back. “So good of you to rejoin us, Captain Kirkland!”

Arthur’s already-flushed face darkened at the sound of his name.

“Who the hell are you supposed to be?”

“Beilschmidt!” Bonnefoy cut over him. “What the hell do you think you are doing out there? Come back at once!”

“No can do, friend!” said Beilschmidt cheerfully. “I told you, I can’t risk being late for my drop off! Besides, you really think I was going to lug Arthur Kirkland around?”

Arthur sucked in a deep breath and yelled, “HOW THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU KNOW MY FULL NAME?” but at the same time, Bonnefoy swore and said, “THAT IS A LIE AND YOU DAMN WELL KNOW IT! THE PLAN WAS TO WAIT ONE MORE DAY AND THEN WE WOULD –”

“Hold on!” Arthur looked at Bonnefoy, suddenly understanding. “You two were planning on sailing off, leaving me marooned on this bloody island, weren’t you?”

“But of course!” said Bonnefoy, irritated. “We are _pirates_ , dear Captain, _pirates_.”

“Oh, well that is just rich coming from you, all your talk of saving my life and for what?”

“Don’t be so dramatic! You wouldn’t be left for dead!”

“He’s right!” Beilschmidt’s voice drifted in from the sailboat. "You would've been totally fine on your own!"

“SHUT UP!” said Arthur and Bonnefoy.

But Beilschmidt ignored them both, coming to stand at the back of his ship. He planted his hands on his hips and announced with obvious pride, “I’m the world’s best smuggler, you know! This island is where I keep all my contraband! I’ve got a house a bit further down, it’s well-stocked! Neither of you will go hungry or thirsty, so you'll be able to survive as long as you don’t piss off the finfolk!”

It dawned on Arthur - the full extent of what was happening. Far beyond the worst-case scenario. He had woken straight into a living nightmare.

“Gilbert, please!” said Bonnefoy. “Be reasonable! I thought we were becoming friends! Don’t leave me here with this rotten English bastard!”

Arthur’s head felt unbearably hot. “As an officer of the Royal Navy, I order you to come round and take us off this bloody island at once!”

“No can do!” said Beilschmidt, laughing openly at their desperation. “Ah, don't look at me like that! Like I said, you'll be fine. Just mind your manners with the finfolk, drink plenty of water and - aha! And I wouldn't try building another boat to get out of here if I was you. The finfolk know me fine but they don't take kindly to anyone trespassing in the water! Remember, you're enjoying their hospitality! You've been pretty lucky so far but I won't push it, eh?"

Only a madman would call this situation a stroke of luck. Arthur took in as much air as he could and shouted at the top of his lungs, “COME BACK HERE!”

“I’ll be back in a couple of weeks,” said Beilschmidt, planting his hat back on his hand and waving. “Maybe a month or two! Try not to kill each other in the meantime! _Auf wiedersehen_ , suckers!”

Bonnefoy cursed fluently in French, a long vile curse that defied Arthur’s limited vocabulary.

And then, watching as Gilbert Beilschmidt adjusted his sails and passed over the edge of the reef, Arthur’s overexertion finally caught up with him, and he fainted.

* * *

_“You’re picking out names already?” Lizzie glared at him from over a washbin with three of Arthur’s shirts floating in the suds. She was just beginning to show; the pregnancy had added to her beauty, given color to her pale face and a shine to her hair. But still, she scowled heavily at him. “And what in hell makes you think it’s a boy?”_

_Arthur was surprised, pausing with a piece of toast halfway to his mouth._

_“You want a girl?”_

_Lizzie said, “I never said that.”_

_“Well, in that case, I like the name Alice for a girl. Or Matilda, after my mum.”_

_Lizzie slammed his shirt back into the water. “We’re not naming her after your mum. Her name should be something simple. Like Emma.”_

_“But what if it’s a boy?”_

_“I’m not having a boy!”_

_“Just hear me out!”_

_“I didn’t ask for your fucking opinion!”_

_Arthur was annoyed – this was half his baby, after all. He should at least get some say in what they call it. But during their last fight, Lizzie had thrown a teacup at his head and threatened to leave and Arthur was trying to be better. It was his duty as a husband to make her happy, even when she was being ridiculous and unreasonable._

_“Can we at least talk about it later?”_

_Lizzie had been in a better mood recently. She didn’t get as sick in the mornings and she, too, seemed to regret their last argument. It had been stupid. Arthur didn’t remember what it was about. They were trying. They were trying. She sighed._

_“I don’t care,” she grumbled, plunging her hands back into the bin with a fury. “Call it whatever the hell you want.”_

_“I like Alfred, for a boy.”_

_Lizzie’s face twitched in a way that Arthur recognized: She approved, but was still angry with him. “Aren’t you going to be late?”_

* * *

He woke to water, cold water pouring over his burning forehead.

Arthur sputtered and gasped, blindly reaching for something to grab on to. He was sure that he had fallen off the dock and been caught in the surf, and of course Bonnefoy wouldn’t think to help him, the bloody pirate scum had been trying to maroon him on this thrice-damned island, he –

– opened his eyes and saw a face, a face Arthur thought he would never see again.

Arthur recoiled, scrambling out of the surf and onto the burning sand, heaving for breath.

The blue-eyed boy, the ghost of his son, frowned in obvious concern.

“Hmph,” said Bonnefoy, scowling down. “You think so badly of the merfolk, you arrogant idiot. Well, look. Here is the creature which saved your worthless life! And now we are stuck here, so perhaps you will want to rethink your ridiculous superiority complex and –”

Arthur was not listening as the pirate began to rant. He was far away, sinking beneath the sea as lightning flashed over head, as his ship cracked in two and the monsters came to feast. The vision he had seen – or thought he’d seen – when _Elizabeth_ went down, it was only half a dream. Here was the reality, the impossible reality. A merman, young and lightly freckled, with eyes as blue as the sea and a long, strong tail to match them. Lizzie's eyes, the same shape and color. He was blond, sandier and sturdier than Mathieu, more confident in his posture and bolder in his expressions. Lizzie had never looked so innocent, so curious as to anything. The creature stretched out a palm, as if to touch him. Arthur had never been more terrified of anything.

He dug his palms into the sand, not even feeling the heat, and pushed himself back up the beach.

The creature who was not his son looked hurt.

Arthur felt as if he’d been punched. He was going to vomit; he covered his mouth with his hands.

“And now look!” Bonnefoy went on. “Look at this poor thing’s face, you’ve offended him! Oh, would it absolutely kill you to show any manners? I have already told you, they just want to say hello but no, you simply cannot bear to sully your precious hands and you are going to get us both killed at this rate, you stupid, selfish Englishman, you –”

“Shut up.”

“ – drove Gilbert away, drove this boy away, and you would drive me away except now I am trapped here, because of you! You know that everything about this situation is entirely your fault, _monsieur_? Don’t you see -”

“Shut up!”

“ – that if it weren’t for you, chasing after me in that damn hurricane, then none of this –”

“SHUT UP!”

His voice cracked, startling Bonnefoy into silence. Arthur put his head in his hands so that he wouldn’t have to look at either of them. He breathed, slowly, deeply. Perhaps if he fainted again, perhaps if he went back to sleep, then it would be as if none of this was happening.

The world had gone upside down. Arthur did not know what to do. His ship was gone, his crew was gone - and now, stranded. It was too much, all of it, too much. 

“Hmph,” said Bonnefoy again, but this time he didn’t sound so pompous “Well, I certainly hope you are ashamed of yourself, dear Captain. I will graciously accept your apology.”

“Oh, sod off!” snapped Arthur, glaring up at him.  “You don’t know the first damn thing about me! And you can take that self-righteous attitude and shove it up your frog arse for all I care! You’re all talk anyway. If you wanted me killed, you had plenty of opportunity to do it while I was unconscious. Hell, that Beilschmidt fellow might’ve even helped you if you asked!”

Rather than looking chastised, as any decent person might’ve, Bonnefoy raised his chin haughtily. “Don’t be absurd! Unlike you, you disgusting uncivilized vulture, I do not attack my enemies when their backs are turned, nor do I strike when they are weak and suffering!”

Arthur reached into the sand, seized a small shell, and hurled it at Bonnefoy as hard as he could.

He missed by a mile.

Bonnefoy rolled his eyes. “My point exactly, dear Captain. You are weak. You really want to fight me to the death? Carry out your mission? Oh, yes, I know all about that, of course. The English must be truly desperate if it’s to send the likes of you to bring me down.”

“You’re not invincible,” said Arthur. “Everyone has weaknesses. And I’ve been keeping a close eye on your activities. You're a murderer and a thief, and a ruddy hard man to catch but even you make mistakes. Don't think I haven't noticed. In fact, I do believe I’ve spotted two or three more weaknesses in you just from the time I’ve been awake on this island.”

They gazed at each other, challenging. At the back of his mind, Arthur registered the fact that the only thing stronger than his hatred for himself was the hatred he felt towards Francis Bonnefoy.

"Mark my words,” said Arthur. “You are mine, and I will complete my mission if it is the last thing I do.”

Bonnefoy smirked and lifted his chin.

“Well, then you will have to get well first, dear Captain. Good luck finding your way back to the pool in one piece!”

He turned and marched down the beach with his head held high.

Arthur decided right then and there that he was going survive this, if only to spite the pirate he'd come so far to try and kill.

He groaned and used the end of the dock to pull himself into a standing position. It was even harder than the first time around. His hands trembled and his legs felt leaden. It would be a long, hard walk. Arthur grimaced, but now he was more determined than ever to survive. Perhaps this predicament could even be a blessing in the long run. After all, he would have time to recover his strength – to form a plan to defeat Bonnefoy. And possibly, Beilschmidt the smuggler, if it came to that. This was a matter of honor, or something of the sort. 

Something tugged at his trousers.

Arthur’s heart faltered; he had nearly forgotten.

Lizzie’s eyes in his face – somehow. Or maybe Arthur really was going mad.

The poor young creature had pulled himself nearly onto the shore, leaving only the finned tips of his tail in the surf. He held on to Arthur’s trousers, his mouth open as if he meant to say something, to ask a question. Beneath his lips, his teeth were sharp, pointed as a shark’s.

Just looking at him was too much, too much, too much.

Arthur deliberately stepped back, yanking his leg away. The creature’s hand was left dangling in the empty air.

“I’m sorry,” said Arthur, dizzy and overwhelmed. “I truly am. But you should have just let me go.”

It would have been so much easier that way. 

Bonnefoy had said that the merfolk did not have human speech, but the boy’s eyes widened as if he had understood.

Arthur turned away, and began the long, hard trek back to shelter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Francis sure are off to a great start! God I love writing these two, they're so much fun! And if Arthur could pull himself together for a minute, he may realize that he's not as alone in the world as he believes. I mean, Francis may be pirate but he's clearly not the enemy here. Well, we have to forgive him. He has just been through a big ordeal. But Gilbert is off to the races, so there's plenty of time for them to bond!
> 
> And yeah, like I said - I love this fic a lot. I'm also a huge procrastinator and so I wrote this instead of doing my homework for the week. I wish I could tell you that this is a one-time thing but knowing me? It's likely that I'll write to escape my responsibilities. Hey, everyone needs a hobby, right?
> 
> I churned this chapter out pretty quick but I still hope that you enjoyed it!


	4. The Names of Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back-back-back, back again-gain-gain
> 
> I finally got around to finishing this chapter this morning so I figured i'd throw it out there! I'm really glad for everyone's who left reviews and comments, you guys are the best!! Like I've mentioned, I'm in school and I've got work to do, but I'm still working hard at these. It was so refreshing to come back to this fic after so long!!
> 
> Happy reading and I'll catch you next update!!!!

When Arthur made it back to the pool, he sank down into the soft sand, closed his eyes, and slept.

He woke again, hours later, and groaned. The sun was still high and now Arthur could feel it through the trees. His skin burned and itched but he could not bring himself to lift his arms. His head felt like it was full of cotton. 

A pair of violet eyes blinked down on him in concern.

“Don’t,” Arthur tried to say, but it came out as air and helpless sound.

The boy touched his cool palm to Arthur’s cheek once more.

His eyes widened, and he disappeared into the water again.

The next thing Arthur knew, Francis Bonnefoy was kneeling over him, shaking his head in disappointment. 

“Idiot,” he grumbled, and, “ _Si seulement vous n’étiez pas tellement determine à être difficile_.”

Arthur did not understand the words but wanted to hear more. Of course, he hated the French because he was English and it was the principle of the thing. But the language – even in a pirate’s mouth – was soothing and beautiful. Luckily for him, Bonnefoy was the talkative type.

“A _prés tout le problème que j’ai rencontré pour vous soigner ã la santé, encore vous essayez de vous faire tuer. Gilbert m’a prévenu de vous quitter mais ai-je écouté? J’ai dit, non, j’ai été trompé par de beaux yeuz verts et stupides. Et bien! Je ne ferai pas cette erreur à nouveau…”_

Bonnefoy glared at him, even as he laid a damp piece of cloth over Arthur’s forehead. 

He seemed surprised to see Arthur’s eyes open. 

Arthur smiled blithely.

“You have a fever,” said Bonnefoy flatly. “So I don’t know why you are smiling like that.”

He was delirious, drunk on the sound of a foreign tongue. But still, Arthur had his pride. He croaked, “Bloody – pirate… why?”

Nothing about this man made any sense to Arthur. He needed to sleep again.

“Damn me,” said Bonnefoy, as his eyes drifted shut. “I really am hopeless.”

* * *

Arthur dreamed of his almost-life.

He dreamed of clear skies and adventurous seas, of fairness and cooperation and a city that with air that didn’t make him sick to his stomach. He dreamed of a clear head and happy memories. Maybe when his son was old enough, he could join Arthur on his ship. They would traverse the world together, and Lizzie would have some time to herself at home.

She had always treasured her moments alone.

* * *

 

It was a full week before Arthur fully regained consciousness. When he did, he felt weaker and more miserable than he had in years. He was laid out in a plain but not uncomfortable bed with thin sheets, propped up by a few lumpy pillows. The house around him had two rooms – one for the bed and one, it seemed, for storage. Francis Bonnefoy, who complained endlessly about acting like a nurse but did it anyways, explained that he had dragged Arthur out here.

“What in the hell is wrong with you?” the pirate demanded. “How can such a sickly man call himself the captain of his own ship?”

“It’s not that,” Arthur croaked. 

“Then what, hmm? Tell me so I can cure it. I am not going to put up with this forever. You want to live, you should start pulling your own weight!”

Francis loomed over his bedside, arms folded imperiously. 

The truth was that every hour put more and more distance between Arthur and his last drink. That was what was making him sick, and he knew it, because he’d experienced this exact same situation before when he was recovering after Lizzie’s passing. Though all of his brothers – and his sister, for that matter – were avid drinkers, his mother did not keep alcohol in the house if she could help it. He had grown used to working while inebriated, to sleeping off hangovers, to forcing himself to exercise precautions so that he wouldn’t lose his position with the Navy. 

It was undignified and embarrassing, to be dependent on something that came out of a bottle. He could not let Bonnefoy know. In some ways, he knew too much already.

Arthur set his jaw. 

“Give me time,” he said. “I’ll recover.”

Bonnefoy let out a noise like a sigh. “You would recover faster if you told me what was ailing you.”

Arthur closed his eyes. “I’ll handle it on my own.”

“Hopeless,” muttered Bonnefoy. “Suit yourself, idiot captain.”

* * *

Gilbert’s cabin was indeed well-stocked but time passed slowly on the merfolk’s island. In that way, Arthur supposed that he was lucky that he didn’t have to endure this exile alone – but he wouldn’t admit that to Bonnefoy, not even on pain of death. To his credit, however, the pirate did not abandon Arthur, continuing to provide care while he recovered. 

For a fugitive and murderer, he was a surprisingly good housekeeper. 

And while Arthur steadfastly refused to reveal any information about himself – or the nature of his persistent illness – Francis Bonnefoy seemed to dislike the quiet, and kept up a running monologue in a mix of French and English. French was reserved for when he was irritated with Arthur – which was most of the time – but when he was bored, he switched to English. He left sentences hanging, asking deceptively rhetorical questions, spoke more loudly and lent a lot of glances in Arthur’s direction. It was all a ploy to get him to speak – to let down his guard. 

Sometimes, it even worked. 

For example, when it became clear that Arthur could now stomach a full meal without much trouble, Francis said, “Excellent news! Now I can finally cook something that isn’t bland and you’ll see what a real meal tastes like. You can’t have had that many decent meals in England.”

Arthur scoffed. “I’ll have you know that I’m an excellent cook.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “I’ve been told that my chocolate scones are the best in London.”

He had only tried to make this recipe once when he was fifteen, and he’d nearly burned down the block in the process. His sister was liable to beat him within an inch of his life if he ever tried to get near the kitchen. But there was no reason that Bonnefoy had to know about any of that.

“A baker, mm?” The pirate smiled. “ _Trés bien_ , dear captain! I always told myself that I would open up a little shop myself when I retired.”

The thought of a pirate opening up a sweetshop nearly made Arthur fall out of bed from laughing.

Arthur grew stronger by the day. Though his head still ached and his limbs felt shrunken and useless, he was eventually able to stand and even ventured outside a few times, though the heat usually drove him back in soon enough. He avoided the shore if he could, but he could not hide from the merfolk. They appeared everywhere he went, no matter what. Even the sight of a blue tail would send him running for shelter.

To his irritation, Bonnefoy was quickly becoming an expert on them, just as he’d promised.

“There is a large freshwater spring here,” the pirate explained one day while he was cooking, “and, I think, a series of tunnels in the reef. That’s how Mathieu comes and goes as he pleases. He seems afraid to go beyond the reef, the poor boy. But his brother –”

“Brother?”

“Yes, you’ve already met him.” Bonnefoy raised an eyebrow over his shoulder. “That’s the one who saved your life.”

Oh. Arthur felt a curious relief. Lizzie had not given birth to twins, after all.

He leaned back into his pillows, sighing.

“Don’t give me that! Tomorrow, you should find him and apologize.”

“For what?” 

“For being an ass, of course!”

Arthur scowled.

Francis appeared in the doorway with the cabin’s only dented ladle in hand. He held it up threatening, like one might hold a sword.

“How about a deal, eh? If you don’t apologize to the boy, then I stop cooking and we’ll see just how well you’ll really fare on your own, dear captain.”

“I would be perfectly fine without your help!”

Bonnefoy rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say.”

That evening, when night fell and Bonnefoy had gone off to whatever place he slept in, Arthur remained awake. He debated on whether or not to risk Bonnefoy’s threat. He thought about the quiet island and the things that surrounded it. It really did feel like he was in another world, another person’s life. But he had always known that ghosts were real. With that in mind, it should be no difficult feat to apologize to a merman.

In the morning, Arthur rose early. Bonnefoy was not in the cabin’s other room, curiously enough. Arthur wondered just how large the island really was, or what else might be on it. For some reason, the thought of the pirate sleeping in the jungle made him feel a bit guilty. Arthur tried to brush it off; he was ill, and Bonnefoy was a criminal, so there was really no harm in it. 

The sun was just coming up in the east, the sky stained pink and gold. The ocean was cool and calm, a light breathe pushing Arthur’s unruly hair from his forehead, a faint wisp of clouds forming on the pale horizon. It was the kind of sky that made Arthur’s heart unwind at the sight, the kind of morning that he liked to see from the deck of his ship. With his toes in the damp sand, it wasn’t quite the same but it was a modicum of comfort all the same.

There was, again, no sign of Francis Bonnefoy. 

“Hello?”

His voice was hoarse. Arthur cleared his throat, determined to raise his voice even though it would disturb the peaceful morning.

“Hello? Anyone out there?”

He wandered down the beach, towards the place where he knew that the makeshift dock was, listening to the rhythmic breaking of the waves, the rustling of the trees. A few birds circled the ocean, searching for fish. Arthur wondered how far it was to the next island.

“Anyone?” 

At the dock, he saw the remains of Bonnefoy’s work – a fishing pole and a net. Arthur frowned at this. Most likely it belonged to Gilbert Beilschmidt the smuggler, but it only reinforced how useless Arthur had been so far. Francis was working hard and keeping them both alive, making the most of their situation while he was reeling from withdrawals. The thought of being indebted to a pirate – especially this particular pirate – filled Arthur with a mix of anger and shame. 

Arthur had been born in London, on the river, but you would be mad to fish in the Thames. Whatever wildlife had thrived in the area centuries before was long dead and gone. He picked up the fishing pole, testing its weight in his hands. 

Grimacing, he set it back down.

“I’ll make a fool out of myself,” he said. “Damn it, how am I supposed to make myself useful like this?”

Of course, no one answered.

Arthur continued walking. 

The reef that surrounded the island was clear turquoise, the kind of beautiful piece of sea that could only be found in these islands. It stretched out for a considerable distance before abruptly darkening to the deep blue of the Caribbean Sea. This could pose a problem. Any ship that tried to rescue them would have to dock a considerable distance off, and then would have to fight through the mermaids to get to shore. The memory of what they could do made him shudder. Arthur wondered how it was that this Gilbert fellow had found this place. Were all petty smugglers friendly with mythical creatures or was it just him? 

Perhaps he should ask Francis. He’d talked with the man for three days before they were abandoned. He would know. 

Arthur groaned. “God damn it.”

He wished he weren’t so useless. 

The water stirred suddenly up ahead. 

Arthur stiffened self-consciously, but soon relaxed. 

“Oh, it’s only you,” he said, eyeing the merman called ‘Mathieu.’ “Er, nice to see you again.”

The violet-eyed boy hovered uncertainly near a formation of black rocks. His expression was still closed, almost sad. Unlike the last few times, he did not approach Arthur and offer his hand in greeting. He looked ready to flee at any moment. 

“Don’t worry,” said Arthur, sighing. “I’m quite alright now. See, look? Back to normal. Um. I’m – I’m sorry you had to see me… well, you know.”

The young merman did not look convinced.

“Your name is… Mathieu, right?”

It occurred to him how stupid this was. The merfolk did not understand human speech at all. He couldn’t answer yes or no. The name was only something that Bonnefoy had given him for fun. Still, Arthur persisted. 

“You may call me Arthur, if you like,” he said. As he spoke, he inched closer, still worried that he may frighten the boy off. “I’m technically a captain in the King’s navy – but it’s not like you would know anything about that. Um… well…” 

He came to the rock formation and stuck out his hand awkwardly.

“What do you say to a fresh start?” asked Arthur.

The boy stared at his hand with wide eyes. After a moment, Mathieu smiled and stuck out his hand in the same way. Arthur took it quickly and gave it a firm shake.

“There,” he said, quickly letting go and wiping his hands on his trousers. Merfolk, it seemed, did not need to maintain a human body temperature. “Now that’s settled. You – er, you wouldn’t happen to have see your brother around here, would you?” 

Mathieu ducked into the water and swam away. 

It was so sudden that at first, Arthur had no idea what to do with himself. Had his instructions worked or had he said the wrong thing? Should he wait or continue his walk? The sun was rising steadily, the air growing warmer and the sky growing bluer. He still wasn’t accustomed to the heat and had no desire to fall sick again. Besides, he’d accomplished his mission, in a way. After all, he’d made nice with one of the creatures who’d tried to help him. Bonnefoy would probably say that it wasn’t good enough but Arthur was more than strong enough to argue with him now. 

After a few minutes, when Mathieu failed to return, Arthur shook himself and hurriedly made his way back to the cabin, glancing over his shoulder for signs of the merfolk all the while. He made it back just as Bonnefoy did, a sly smile sliding over his face when he caught sight of Arthur. 

“ _Bonjour, cher capitaine_! Feeling better now?”

Arthur scowled. “Shove off. I’m not totally helpless, you know!”

“As you say, dear captain,” said Bonnefoy, shaking his head. “Care for breakfast?”

Arthur reminded himself that all of this was temporary. Gilbert Beilschmidt would return to the island at some point. Until then, not only his survival but his dignity was on the line. He would play nice with the merfolk and the pirates, for now.

So he helped (watched) Bonnefoy cook plantains and then, they went out on the docks to eat it.

“It’s horribly dull in there,” said Arthur gruffly, sitting as far from Bonnefoy as the limited space would allow. “To stay cooped up like that – it’s not natural, is it? For people, that is. Birds, maybe, if they’ve been tamed or broken but not people.” 

Bonnefoy still wore a smug look like he’d expected all of this. Arthur longed to punch him again.

“I most certainly agree with you, captain,” the pirate said. “The world is a wide, beautiful place. Humans should be free to experience as much of it as they can in the time that we are allowed.”

Arthur did not think that the world was really beautiful at all. Not even on mornings like this one. Some places were beautiful, but the world as a whole was fearsome and random and cruel. He did not want to experience this world as much as he wanted to escape it. He wasn’t stupid and knew that the Earth was round. But some days, he still dreamed of what it might be like to sail off the edge and never return.

“Ah, look!” said Bonnefoy, apparently not concerned with Arthur’s quiet. “We have visitors!”

Mathieu’s head rose shyly above the water. And beside him –

Arthur took a deep breath. The truce, remember the truce.

The blue-eyed merman grinned and made a strange sort of gesture in Arthur’s direction.

“I have been coming up with new ways to talk to them,” said Bonnefoy, seeing Arthur’s face. “Like this. He’s saying – basically – that he is glad to see that you are finally well. And now I will say, ‘He wants to talk to you.’”

Francis gestured again, then pointed to Arthur.

“That is normally how I signal that I want to talk to them,” said the pirate. “But I believe you still have an apology to make.”

Arthur spoke through his teeth. “You are insufferable. Fine! I’m sorry,” he said to the blue-eyed merman, “for panicking when we last met. In my defense, I was under considerable stress!”

“Hmm… That didn’t sound very sincere.”

“It’s very sincere! A gentleman is always true to his word!”

“Perhaps a gentleman could learn to be a little less… how do you say? Like when you’re trying to pick a fight with someone?”

“Abrasive?”

“Yes, that’s the one!”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “See what I have to put up with?” he said to the blue-eyed merman. “Maddening.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Shut up and eat your bloody – whatever the hell these are.”

“Plantains,” said Francis, offended on the behalf of the plants. “And they’re delicious! I would know because I have cooked them.”

Arthur was tempted to stop eating out of spite for him, but he was hungry. Silence fell between them for a moment. The two mermen seemed to grow bored – or, rather, the blue-eyed one got bored and dragged Mathieu off with him. They resurfaced shortly, at the edge of the reef, trying to catch the birds which dove in for fish. 

“They’re very sweet,” said Francis, after a while. “Despite what you may believe.”

Instead of answering that, Arthur asked, “Why did you decide to call him Mathieu?”

“Well…” Francis smiled, but his eyes were sad. “It’s simple. I like the name. I had always thought that, if I were to marry and have children, then my son would be called ‘Mathieu.’”

“You know that he’s not really your son, right?”

“Of course,” said Francis, laughing like Arthur had said something ridiculous. “He probably has his own parents. But the name suits him, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” said Arthur. “But what have you decided to call the other one?”

Francis grinned at him now. “I have decided that you should be the one to christen him! Why should I have all the fun, eh?”

“Were you waiting for me to ask just to tell me that?” 

“Don’t spoil the fun,” said Francis, nudging him suddenly. “Pick out a name – any name!”

The sun was rising over the island, warming Arthur to the point of discomfort, but the water was cool beneath his feet. Out in the distance, the boys had managed to capture a seagull and Mathieu was stroking its trembling head, mouth moving soundlessly as if to calm it. The boy who had saved Arthur’s life looked over at the two men on the docks and grinned, holding up the bird in his arms as if to show them his accomplishment.

There was only one name, in the end, that Arthur could give to the boy who had Lizzie’s eyes.

“Alfred.”


	5. The Wolf of Spain

Days passed slowly, though that wasn’t to say that Arthur was bored. The first thing he did was clean.

Gilbert Beilschmidt’s ‘hovel’ was one story, with two rooms – the bedroom where Arthur resided alone, and the makeshift kitchen. On inspection, it was quite well stocked. Arthur wondered if there was an herb garden on the island somewhere; he could think of no other explanation for why a smuggler would have fresh peppermint leaves in his cabinet. Nearby, there was a small, hidden cache under the sand and stone, which was kept locked. Arthur wondered if he wouldn’t uncover the key in his cleaning but he had no such luck. Doubtless it was full of contraband goods, but knowing that Gilbert was out on a “delivery,” it was probably empty anyway.

Though Arthur’s initial post-truce thinking was that he could spend as much time alone as possible, he found that he couldn’t escape Francis – or the merfolk, for that matter. It seemed that Francis didn’t care to wander too far into the jungle; neither of them had made their way past the rocky pool where Arthur had resided after the shipwreck. And Alfred and Matthew had taken such a curious liking to Arthur that it was hard to escape them, anyway. 

The boys communicated largely in the made-up sign language, which Arthur learned with surprising ease. It was a project in development; sometimes, it evolved into a rather elaborate game of charades when one party didn’t recognize a signal or gesture. Arthur found himself wishing that the boys would just surprise him and start speaking full sentences, like normal human children. Then, one morning, he discovered that Alfred could vocalize, but the sounds were not of human nature and rather strenuous on the nerves, to say the least. Francis came down to the cabin with an armful of fruit and found him standing at the edge of the pier and lecturing the boy heedlessly, yelling about “decent hours of the morning” and “scaring me half to death, boy, I thought you’d been hurt!”

Francis roared with laughter at the scene – Arthur’s face flushed with fright and anger, Alfred’s obvious bewilderment – that he dropped their entire breakfast, and they spent hours washing off the sand, Arthur grumbling all the while. Matthew came by later with a decorative little dried starfish and presented it to Arthur. He signed “From Alfred – sorry, sorry, sorry,” and then Arthur looked up and saw Alfred’s head poking out of the surf, just enough so that his bright blue eyes were visible.

“You really ought to go easy on that boy,” said Francis, eyes glittering with amusement.

Arthur sighed and tucked the starfish in his pocket. He signed a vague thank-you. 

Immediately, rushed to Matthew’s side to try and help the humans in their work.

With Francis’s help, Arthur also began learning to fish.

“I used to fish all the time,” he told Arthur. The two of them were perched at the edge of the dock, as was their morning habit. “We had a little pond on our estate that was always well-stocked. My sister and I –”

Hearing the word _estate_ , Arthur scoffed loudly.

“What?” Francis asked. “Oh, that is not – here, let me –”

He reached over and made to physically adjust Arthur’s grip on the pole, his hands resting over Arthur’s wrists. 

Arthur yanked his body back, embarrassed. 

“I can do it myself, thank you. And for the record, it does not shock me in the slightest that you’re a society brat.”

“Society brat?” Francis repeated. “What does that mean?”

“I always figured,” said Arthur. “They told us all about you but no one could properly figure out where you’d come from, or the reason you got into piracy. It was my theory that you were rich. Probably the second son or illegitimate, which prevented you from inheriting. But you lived like a prince until you became bored and decided to get into robbing and killing. It’s bloody typical, you know.”

There was such a long silence after this that Arthur actually began to worry that he was mistaken.

“What? Am I wrong?” he demanded.

Francis only stared at him. His hair had gotten much longer recently; the pale morning sea made his eyes seem lighter, reflecting the ocean. Arthur swallowed, praying that just this once, his fair skin wouldn’t betray him by turning red. 

“You are wrong,” said Francis after a moment more. He smiled, turned back to his fishing line. “I was not illegitimate or a second-born. It was only me and my sister.”

“But you had an estate?” The venom had gone out of Arthur. Their truce was fragile but it was vital to their survival. He did not want to upset Francis, pirate or no. Or at least, he did not want to cause offense serious enough to jeopardize the peace. “In, er – Marseilles, was it?”

“Yes. My father was a merchant, you see, and my mother had died when I was very young. So, most of the time it was my sister and I at home, alone.”

“And she fished with you?”

“Oh, all the time, when she was young. Mostly she just sat by and read her novels but once or twice she did actually catch something!”

“Really,” said Arthur, awkward now. “My sister would’ve hated something like that.”

Francis smiled blindingly at him. Arthur held back a groan; he’d said too much.

“Are you telling me that you also had a sister? _Quelle coïncidence_! Just one more thing that you and I have in common, my dear captain.”

Arthur grimaced and scooted to the very edge of the pier.

“Oh, please. Just because we have siblings doesn’t mean we have anything properly in common.”

“Just because you pretend that we have nothing in common doesn’t mean it’s true,” Francis told him. “Come now, don’t be like this. We’re becoming such good friends. Would it be so bad to admit that you don’t hate me?”

Arthur said, “Actually, you ought to know that I’m planning to betray you as soon as we get rescued. For the bounty on your head – why, I could buy anything I wanted. I’ve been meaning to replace my old hat.”

“The one with the big horrid feather?”

“It was an ostrich feather, and quite distinguished. Not that I’d expect a pirate to have any taste.”

Francis grinned and shook his head.

“We French _invented_ tasteful fashion and the world has copied it, not that I would expect an Englishman to understand.” 

Even though Arthur was loath to admit it, he could tell that his seething hatred for Bonnefoy had lost its edge. Try as he might to remember who he was and what he was here for, Arthur simply couldn’t hate a man who worked as hard as Francis. He couldn’t hate the obvious affection that he had for Alfred and Matthew. He couldn’t hate the banter or his willingness to help Arthur survive. As much as he told himself that this really was just a truce, he feared that he could no longer count on the idea that he’d be true to his word and turn Bonnefoy in for the bounty. 

It had been so much easier to act ruthlessly when he had nothing and no one to care about.

* * *

Gilbert Beilschmidt wasn’t what one might call a “good Christian.”

Rather, he liked to believe that he and God had an understanding. Gilbert kept His secrets – the mermaids, the magic, and more – and God returned the favor by keeping him out of trouble. However, Gilbert also believed that God (pardon the expression) was a cruel bastard with a nasty sense of humor. It was either that, or maybe He had just taken the day off, allowing bad fortune to make its way into Gilbert’s life. 

The ships flew Spanish colors – a bad sign. Gilbert had had many run-ins with Spaniards over his years of smuggling – pirates, conquistadors, and treasure-hunters alike. Everyone in Spain was after something in the New World, and Gilbert knew better than anyone what something was and why it wasn’t always a good thing. He’d developed certain tricks to deter them – pretending he spoke only German usually did the trick. And even so, he’d completed his deliveries and they couldn’t technically arrest him. Most of the Spaniards he dealt with were too honorable to try otherwise, pirate or not. 

But as they overtook him and hooked his sailboat, Gilbert recognized the galleons. The _Bandua_ and the _Nabia_. 

Things had just gone from bad to worse.

These were privateers – professional Spanish naval officers, crewed with Italian seamen – but they were fortune-hunters as well. It was said that they’d gained their first promotion by discovering the tomb of Hercules off the coast of Galicia. The stories may have been just stories, but Bandua and her sister were fearsome in battle, rarely leaving prisoners and returning spoils tenfold the cost of their deployments. They were the scourge of the Caribbean in the way that Francis Bonnefoy was the bane of the trade empires. And they were overdue for another great discovery.

Gilbert was separated from his sailing ship. The two galleons were side-by-side, giving Gilbert a devastatingly good view of mustachioed Spaniards and fresh-faced young adventures taking the ship apart in order to find hidden treasures. Gilbert felt a pang of anxiousness. He could always get another boat, but still. It’d be a lot harder to escape without one.

The melodic lilt of Spanish voices floated closer. Gilbert looked up to see a man in a gold-trimmed crimson coat descended from the wheel to the lower deck, where Gilbert was being tied with heavy rope.

“A smuggler, we think,” said a tall African member of the crew. “We’ll see what a search of his vessel uncovers but until then, I think we ought to keep him here. We could probably still get a bounty on him even if he’s dropped his materials elsewhere.”

“Thank you,” said the man in red, flashing a smile. “I shall speak to him myself. I wouldn’t want you to dirty your hands with a simple smuggler.”

Gilbert’s single pang of anxiousness became a rising tide of dread.

The high black boots of Antonio Fernandez Carriedo clipped across the polished deck, the peacock feather in his hat swaying in the breeze. 

Captain Carriedo – Don Antonio – the Wolf of Spain. Gilbert last heard that he was in court, preparing for an engagement to a Flemish countess or bailing a Portuguese cousin out of jail or arranging the funeral of an uncle from Naples or something like that. He was young – only thirty-five – and famously bullheaded, not the type to be reasoned with. The fact that he was here, overseeing his crew’s mission personally, meant that it really was serious. Of course, he really shouldn’t have been surprised. Captain Carriedo was famous for his appetites – for gold, for glory, for battle. There was no way that he’d leave his ship and crew alone for very long. 

The absolute worst thing about him, though, was that he was so very handsome. There was a boyish charm to him – his curly bronze-colored hair, his dimpled smile. And he had green eyes – a bright, fierce, inescapable green.

Gilbert swallowed hard.

Green eyes were always a sign. Green was the color of the sea after storms, the color of the gates into the next life. Green was the color of magic and poison and wealth. It was the color of the sky when souls broke through the barrier and crossed into this world from the dead. 

It was a very, very, very bad sign that someone like Antonio Carriedo had green eyes.

Captain Carriedo crouched down before Gilbert, his face alight with curiosity. 

“What do we have here?” he murmured. “Albino? How odd!”

Gilbert kept his face blank. His looks were usually among the first things people commented on.

“Do you understand me?” asked the captain with a gentle smile. He switched to Italian, “How about now perhaps? And now?” This in French. “Or perhaps now?” In English. Gilbert bit his tongue, refusing to look him in the face.

Carriedo sighed, clicking his tongue in disappointment. But he did not rise.

“Have we found anything?”

A few shouts came across the water – young voices.

“Nothing, captain!”

“Give us a minute to finish up, you hasty bastard!”

Gilbert automatically raised his eyebrows, startled that any member of the crew would be bold enough to talk to their captain in such a way. To his immediate regret, Carriedo noticed. His innocent smile widened hugely.

“So you do understand Italian!” he said happily. “Probably just a little, right? It’s my second language, but I’ll speak slowly for your sake. Oh, I’m so glad. I was worried that this was going to be difficult. Tell me your name, sir smuggler?”

“Gilbert. Just Gilbert.” 

He spoke as simply as he could, flattening his words and emphasizing his accent. 

Captain Carriedo took his chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting Gilbert’s head this way and that to examine him.

“Red eyes! How strange. Pretty, though. I would like to show you to my dear cousins over there. Lovino and Feliciano are their names – my two treasures, both of them! I think Lovino might even surpass me some day, you know. But don’t tell the others. I’d hate for my crew to think I was showing favoritism.”

It was like they were old friends, meeting up after a long separation. Gilbert bit his tongue.

“So tell me,” said Captain Carriedo, “do you have permission to be in Spanish waters?”

“These are not your waters,” Gilbert said, in his deliberately affected Italian. “I am innocent.”

“I’m sure.”

 _Patronizing jackass,_ thought Gilbert, eyeing his smug smile. 

“CAPTAIN!”

“WE’VE FOUND IT, CAPTAIN!”

For a split second, Gilbert didn’t understand. His boat was empty. He’d sold off all he could and traded away the rest. There wasn’t even any booze. And then he realized – the map. 

Carriedo smiled, as if he’d known all along.

“Wonderful work, boys!” he called. To Gilbert, he said, “Now – before we begin, is there anything else you wish to tell me?”  


* * *

“I don’t think it’s possible.”

“Have faith! Anything can be possible.”

“How utterly optimistic of you. Be sensible.”

“Sensible, dear captain – sensible? But this is love!”

“Love?” Arthur raised his eyebrows up at Francis. “You really think it’s love?”

“Of course it is!” Francis declared, clapping his hands together with almost childlike glee. “Just look at him!”

The two stranded sailors were observing Mathieu as he interacted with a young mermaid – brown-skinned and blue-eyed, a true beauty. She was younger than him, her thick brown hair hanging down to her chest, an ocean-colored tail flicking delicately as she literally swam circles around him. Arthur strongly suspected that if Mathieu were human, he’d be blushing. Everything about his body language declared an eager sort of shyness – he wanted to get closer to her, to play along in her game, but he also didn’t want to look silly. 

At the side of the pier, Alfred lurked at surface of the water, watching the scene with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. 

“You’re probably right,” said Arthur, rubbing his chin critically. “Still, I don’t know if they’re ready for it.”

Francis looked scandalized. “You think because they are young that they don’t know love?”

“True love?” Arthur repeated Francis’s earlier description skeptically. “As if that’s not already an impossibility for adults – but at that age? Please. Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he added, glaring up at the pirate, “I’ll certainly be happy for Mathieu if it works out, but you can’t expect something like that to last forever. Love never really does, you know.”

Francis sniffed. “I am sure that your wife must be a very happy woman.”

Something very fragile inside of Arthur shuddered dangerously.

_There is nothing can console me…_

“I’m not married,” he said curtly. “And I don’t intend to force any woman to suffer my company til death do us part.” 

“So you are not only sensible but noble as well,” said Francis, dripping with sarcasm. Beside the pier, Alfred rose out of the water, now thoroughly focused on the humans. “Shall I present you with a medal for your decency?”

“Piss off,” Arthur snapped. “As if you’re any better, you frog-legged pirate.”

“I will have you know that I received many offers of marriage,” Francis said haughtily. “I was among the most eligible bachelors in all of France!”

“As a pirate?” 

“I have always heard that women love a man who can excite them, and my business is nothing if not unpredictable.”

Arthur laughed out loud. Francis’s brow wrinkled briefly, but eventually he smiled again. 

The tension between them faded.

“So, you’re not married either. Somehow, that’s a relief,” Arthur said, turning back to Mathieu and the mermaid. “Aw, look – bless them. It’s like she’s teaching him to dance.”

The mermaid had taken Mathieu’s hands in both of hers and was twirling them in the water, their tails fanning out in a colorful circle. It actually was rather sweet, but the main reason Arthur pointed it out was because he no longer wanted to be the center of Francis’s attention. He did not like the way this conversation had gone; the way Francis was looking at him was starting to make his skin feel unnaturally hot. Like he was looking for treasure. Like he maybe he’d already found it.

Arthur turned to Alfred and asked, “Is she your friend, too?”

Alfred signed back: _A friend – Mathieu’s friend._

“Do you spend time with her often?”

_Yes, all the time. Like family._

“Ah,” Arthur said, grinning. “So, the three of you are already close. That’s good, I think.”

“Really?” 

Francis’s voice made Arthur stiffen.

“Well, yes,” he amended. “It would definitely be worse if they were strangers.”

“But it still won’t last, in your eyes?” Francis eyed him like a hawk. “Because love never does?”

Arthur was quiet for a moment.

Memory was like an unpleasant tide. And unlike the physical tides, there was no pattern to its rise and fall. Some days, Arthur felt as though he’d finally left the past behind him. And some days, it was all he could do it keep his head above water. 

Lizzie had lived down the street from Arthur and she had hated to dance. She’d hated games but she’d hated her work, too. She had been employed as a maid in a richer family’s home from the time she was a girl, and her fingers were always covered in soot and her feet were always aching. Arthur had only ever asked her to dance once, after their makeshift wedding. It had been a mistake; she was already in such a foul mood due to her morning sickness. They spent most of the rest of the day giving each other the silent treatment.

 _We were only children_ , Arthur thought, an emptiness gnawing at the edges of his heart. _Still, I…_

“Arthur?”

Francis’s voice pulled him so suddenly back into the present that it left Arthur disoriented. His throat hurt; he longed for a stiff drink or a stuffed pipe to take the edge off of his nerves. The sunlight glinted off the clear, dark sea and waves crashed on the shore, and the sound of Mathieu and the mermaid at play was accompanied by the calls of birds diving for fish in the reef. Alfred’s cold hand found Arthur’s wrist. 

Arthur took a deep breath.

“I think that everything ends at some point,” he said quietly. “Even and especially love. Nothing ever lasts.”

Francis clicked his tongue against his teeth, but mercifully decided to change the subject.

“What shall we call her, _cher capitaine_? I have always liked the name Angelique for a girl.”

“Victoria,” Arthur countered. “A proper English name for a proper young lady.”

“She looks nothing like a Victoria!”

“It’s a far superior name to Angelique!”

Alfred actually rolled his eyes as they began to bicker and went off to join his brother, tearing himself away.

In the end, they decided to call her “Michela.”

* * *

The map had everything. All of the locations for Gilbert’s smuggler’s holds, all of his meeting places, all of his secrets. His treasures, the hidden pockets of the world that only he knew. The finfolk, the shapechangers, the deer men and the man-eaters. The Fountain of Youth, the mountains of gold, the cursed and the upside-down places. Captain Carriedo uncovered them all, forcing Gilbert to translate the map. He sat, bound and helpless, as the Spaniard and his Italian cousins stuck jewel-head pins into a grand wall-to-wall map in his personal cabin. It was a painted masterpiece – delicate and detailed, must have cost a fortune – but the crew didn’t seem to care about artistry or cost as they stabbed at it with knives, marking the places that they were closest too.

“Now, this interests me,” said Carriedo, gesturing to the Fountain of Youth. “Gilbert, would you care to explain how this differs from the waters of life?” 

When Gilbert did not answer, he spared a glance over his shoulder, to the place where his captive sat, bound across a red silk rug. Gilbert's knees and shoulders were badly cramped but he hadn't been physically harmed yet. In fact, it seemed almost like Carriedo had forgotten about him entirely; the map was written in old High German but one of the crewmen was a native of Tyrol and managed to get the gist of the translations. 

"Are you familiar with that story?" Carriedo asked, folding his arms as he examined the map once more. "I heard it many times when I was growing up in Catalonia but I believe that a German version of the story also exists." 

Gilbert's lip curled but he made no sound. 

“This asshole is useless,” said Lovino, who was the elder and the angrier of Carriedo’s cousins. “Just toss him over the side and be done with it.”

“Don’t be that way,” said Feliciano, who was so sweet in looks and in nature that Gilbert couldn’t help wondering if he’d wandered onto this ship by mistake somehow. “I’m sure that he would help us if we just asked nicely.”

“Playing nice with smugglers?” Lovino snapped. “Get your head out of your ass.”

“Well, it’s not like he’s going anywhere,” Feliciano said, glancing at Gilbert “We might as well try and make use of him! You speak Italian, right?”

Gilbert tried to avoid eye contact. He nodded curtly.

“I’m sorry about Tonio and Lovi,” said Feliciano, all sweet boyish smiles and sparkling golden eyes. “You know they won’t hurt you right? Well, Lovi might punch you if he gets annoyed but he really doesn’t mean anything by it. If you help us, I’ll make sure that Tonio gives you a share of the spoils once we get back to Spain. He’s got a bad reputation, but he’s actually a very kind person! Once we prove ourselves to the king, we’ll have anything we could ask for – a big house with an orchard, and plenty of good food and wine, and of course we’ll be able to marry anyone we want because everyone will think of us as heroes! Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”

When Feliciano described it like that, it really did sound wonderful. Tempting.

Gilbert bit his tongue.

“Good attempt, Feli,” said Carriedo, still eyeing the map. “But I’m not sure our friend cares to help us one way or another. Given the choice between advancing the greater good of humanity and saving their own skin, smugglers will always choose the latter, and never the former.”

Feliciano shrugged.

“But he’s interested in making money, right? And you said yourself that we’ll be rich once we get back to Spain.”

“I don’t see why we have to drag this out any longer,” Lovino grumbled. “We’ve already taken enough in raids that the whole fucking crew can retire off the spoils. And the queen likes Antonio so much that she may just promote him anyway. Why waste time trying to find any of this shit?” He gestured to the map. “I’m not getting eaten by fucking voodoo zombies just for the chance to say that I was right.” 

“It’s not about promotions,” said Carriedo, putting a hand over the Fountain of Youth. “It’s not even about the glory, or the gold.” His fingers trailed slowly down the painted fabric, until they came to rest over a single island. “It’s about something that is truly priceless.”

Gilbert’s heart leapt into his throat.

_Shit, shit, shit, shit._

“Mermaids,” Carriedo declared. “Think of it – half human, half fish. What wonders we could discover by observing such a creature. I have heard that their song can hypnotize even the hardest and most stubborn of men.”

“But captain – the Fountain of Youth!”

“El Dorado!”

“The gold, captain!”

“Immortality!”

“We’d be rich!”

“There’s plenty of gold in this world,” said Carriedo dismissively. “What’s a little more? If Spain ever runs out of gold, we’ll sail there straight away, I promise.” A few scattered laughs greeted this. “No, my friends – if you think on it a little, I am sure you will come to see it as I do. We sail for the merfolk’s isle at once!”

The crew grumbled but did not disobey. It was clear that they did not see the value in chasing after mermaids when Gilbert’s map revealed cities of gold and the secrets of eternal life. But there were some things that humanity was never meant to see. Some things that they were never meant to know. There was a thin emerald veil between this world – the world that existed now, with all of them in it – and the other world. The world with monsters and myths. And Antonio Fernandez Carriedo was of a mind to tear it down – to let all of that magic into this world. For once humanity knew that monsters were real – once they had the proof in their hands – they would seek more, and more, and more.

And they would destroy everything.

The green-eyed wolf turned to Gilbert, horror-struck on the floor, and beamed.

“I really ought to thank you, you know,” he said. “I was starting to worry that I would have to go back to Spain emptyhanded once more. How disappointing that would have been. But now, I need never fear failure. History will remember my name forever. And, yours too, I suppose.”

Gilbert had rattled his brain, trying to figure out where he went wrong. He’d been so diligent, seeking out routes that went unpatrolled, using every method of discretion at his disposal and then some, passing over the sea like a shadow of the moon. And yet still, the wolf of Spain had found him out. Gilbert Beilschmidt - the albino, the outcast - had been entrusted with God’s secrets, and now he had lost them.

Now, all he could do was to pray. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I write a pirate fic without including Spain? The answer is no. No I cannot. 
> 
> Howdy all, it's thesis-writing season and I've been stressed so I wrote this chapter to relax. I hope you enjoy it - I'm really glad that so many people seem to really like this fic, since I like writing it so much. Let's see what else there is in this chapter... Arthur and Francis are finally calling each other by name, so that's pretty significant lol. Still, Arthur's got a lot of issues to work through before they can move forward. They're doing their best. "Michela" is an Italian name, so it was like a compromise. 
> 
> I sort of imagine that Gilbert is an almost magical creature himself - his role in the story is kind of mysterious, tbh. He really acts as a guardian for the magical secrets in the world. I also think if Arthur hadn't gotten into so much substance abuse in this universe, he'd be a little more like Antonio: highly aware of the magic and seeking it out. As it is, he still has a lot more awareness than someone like Francis, though he's proved pretty adaptable. 
> 
> Well, anyway, I think that's about it! Let me know what you think and if you enjoyed - I really do love reading comments from all of you! Thanks for your support and catch you next time!


	6. The Game of Waiting

Eventually, Arthur stopped counting the days. He fell into routines, feeling his body grow stronger by the day. Though he still had the desire for rum and opium, it no longer permeated his every waking thought. Rather, he had many other, more interesting things to consider. There were other merfolk on and near the island, though Arthur rarely saw them. He caught glimpses of a crimson tail in a stream here or a wave of jet black hair there in the surf, but apart from Mathieu, Alfred, and Michela, none of them ever showed their faces. 

He heard them, though, sometimes – singing. 

Each time he heard the voice on the wind, Arthur would freeze up in panic, consumed with the memory of splintered wood, his body slapping against the surface of the waves like a ragdoll before he sank, down into blackness. Even when the song was wordless and lovely and sweet, the noise terrified him. Sometimes, it even reduced him to tears. 

“Why do you think we only see the little ones?” Arthur asked one day, after they’d finished fishing. “Where are all the adults?” 

“Perhaps they’re busy,” said Francis, shrugging a string of fish over his shoulders. 

“Doing what?”

“Living, of course. The same as you and I, _non_?”

Arthur scoffed as he cleaned the two poles and set them aside. 

“What an extraordinarily simple answer.”

“You want there to be some secret explanation?” Francis tried to sneer, but his overlong hair was hanging into his eyes and he was forced to try and blow it to the side. Arthur sniggered as he brushed the sand from his trousers and stood. “Perhaps they have a debate society or an underwater tea house. Stop laughing at me.”

“I can’t imagine anyone took you seriously as a pirate with your hair like this,” said Arthur. His fingers twitched with the impulse to reach out and take a lock between his fingers, to see if it was really as soft as it looked. Luckily, Arthur was a master at killing his own impulses. “Didn’t anyone ever mistake you for a woman?”

Francis deliberately shifted the fish into one of his hands, pushing his hair back with the other and rubbing his chin, where a beard had been steadily growing. 

“I think not.”

“Bearded lady, then,” said Arthur, unperturbed. “They exist, you know.”

“Shut up!” Francis cried. “There is nothing wrong with my hair – or my beard!”

Despite being a pirate, he was still so very French. So concerned with his looks and his style. Arthur was sure that it must be hurting him in some odd, indistinct way – life on this island, stuck in the same plain clothes for days on end. Arthur found this endlessly amusing.

“It just needs a bit of a trim, is all,” he said, nudging Francis on the shoulder. “I could do it, you know. My brothers and I used to give each other haircuts all the time.”

They had reached the cabin, where most of the food was stored. Francis set their catch down on the table as they pulled out the chairs, scrapping against the well-worn floors. The both of them would eat well tonight, and perhaps they could even share with the twins and Michela – and how odd, Arthur thought suddenly, how mundane his thoughts were becoming. Haircuts, what to eat for dinner, how to spend an afternoon. He felt a distant pinch of fear, wondering if at last he’d given up hope and become complacent in his situation.

“How come you never talk about yourself?” asked Francis suddenly. He appeared hard at work, running his knife over the fish to clean it. “All I get from you are these little hints – up til now, I thought you only had a sister. You never mentioned your brothers.”

Arthur bristled.

“What’s it to you?”

“You ask all the time about this island,” Francis went on, grumbling. “You are always wanting to talk to the mermaids, to explore the beaches…”

“Look, if you can’t see the benefit in mapping the island, then I don’t know what –”

“This isn’t about the island, you idiot!” 

“I don’t understand why it’s so important for you to learn about my life before –”

“Before what, Arthur?” Francis demanded. 

Arthur sat back, scowling. His heart clenched and unclenched.

“You and I both know that this arrangement isn’t permanent. As soon as that German fellow comes back, we’ll set off for the nearest port, shake hands and never see each other again.”

“You can’t genuinely believe that. After everything we’ve been through now.”

“You’re a pirate,” Arthur snapped. “And I am an officer in his Majesty’s navy. I’ve already decided I won’t turn you in – isn’t that enough?”

Francis sneered. “So that’s it? That is how you’ll repay me.”

“Yes, it is in fact, and you ought to be bloody grateful for it!” Arthur took a deep breath and shook his head. “What’s the point in even arguing? If you just used your head for once, you’d see it as I do. We live in the real world – and once we leave this place…”

“But here, now,” said Francis, “this is real, too.”

“Who would believe us?” Arthur countered. “If I somehow manage to make it back to England and convince the Navy I’m not an imposter – what shall I tell them? That I was drunk on the job, sailed into the middle of a damn hurricane and sank my own bloody ship, and then got dragged to shore by the ghost of –”

Francis’s eyes widened a fraction. Arthur stood from the table.

“I’m going to take a walk,” he declared. 

“Arthur –?”

This time, Francis could not pull him back to the real, mad world. His heart was hammering wildly, making him sweat. Arthur stumbled out into the blinding sun and walked to the tree line, each breath a monumental effort though his feet were light. He was full of questions and doubts – never a good thing for an officer. Officers kept their heads, gave commands. Even foolish commands. Even commands that got them killed.

He had been so dreadfully unhappy before the hurricane – and now? What now? 

The possibility of him being happy here, on this island, with Francis, was very frightening. 

There was no wind, and no song from the merfolk today. Lizzie’s lovely voice was as still and silent as the sea. Arthur’s mind churned with discomfort. What if he never made it back to England? What if he grew old with Francis on this island, surrounded by things that by all accounts had no right to exist in a world where the maps had no blank edges anymore? 

When he was a boy, he’d been teased mercilessly for believing in fairies. His mother had been born in Cornish country. She believed in sacred trees and rivers, and watchful birds. She used to whisper the stories to Arthur before he slept – and only to Arthur. He was special, she confided once, kissing him between his brows. Someday, he would see. Arthur had delighted in the stories, searched high and low for signs of magic and the other world. But all he found was scorn and mockery. London had sucked the life from his mother while Arthur grew up; he’d watched her hair grow gray and her fingers brittle. And after his father died, it had only gotten worse. 

He once told Lizzie that he’d take her out to the countryside when he had the money for it. They could live in some dull, quaint little village on a hillside, have a house with a little garden. He’d been half-joking when he said it but Lizzie’s eyes had grown misty – wistful. She would have liked it out there, she said. Hope hadn’t seemed like a stranger then. 

But after Alfred was born…

Arthur shuddered. 

He had come to the old sheltered pool where he had first woken up on the island – the place where Francis had initially nursed him back to health. To his surprise, it seemed that Francis had made his camp here – there was a set of sheets strung between the trees in a hammock, among other signs of life. Tools, an empty basket, even a bottle of wine. Arthur frowned at the thing, picked it up to examine it and was disappointed to find it empty. 

He sighed and sat down at the water’s edge, dying for a drink.

Within seconds, the waters rippled and Mathieu’s head appeared.

“Not to worry, lad,” said Arthur, sighing. “I won’t be long. You’ll have this place to yourself again soon enough.”

He didn’t sign anything but Mathieu seemed to understand regardless. The boy crept forward, coming to rest on his elbows at the edge of the pool, his big violet eyes regarding Arthur with a worrying sadness. He signed: _You hate us?_

Arthur said, “What? No – what utter nonsense, boy. What gave you that impression?”

_Humans are afraid of us. You too?_

Arthur bit his lip.

“Look, I will admit that there was a time when I – when I had that fear. But humans are afraid of lots of things, even silly things. Even things that can’t really hurt them. You don’t scare me, Mathieu, and I don’t hate you. Who –?” Arthur frowned, sitting forward. His head cleared, narrowed in on a single question: “Mathieu, why would you ask me something like that?”

_The boat._

“What boat?” 

_Alfred saw – past the reef._

“Alfred’s been going past the reef again?” Arthur grumbled. “Reckless of him. So, he’s seen Gilbert, is that it? Well, excellent timing on his part. I feel as though I’ve had quite enough of frog breath for company.” 

_Not Gilbert’s boat._

* * *

The sailors dragged Gilbert to Carriedo’s quarters once more, throwing him down on the silk rug. Feliciano and Lovino were already there, playing checkers across a low table, sipping wine from stemmed glasses like little princes. They seemed surprised to see him, glancing up at their captain, who was at his desk, noting on maps and in journals once more. 

“Gilbert!” said Carriedo, glancing up with a smile. “I didn’t expect you to ask for me. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Gilbert grimaced as he maneuvered his way up onto his knees.

“Can’t you fucking untie me for once?”

“Why would I do a thing like that?” asked Carriedo. “Letting a captive wander freely around the ship seems dangerous, don’t you agree?” 

“I can’t even swim!” Gilbert exclaimed. “What do you take me for?” 

Carriedo burst out laughing. It sounded the way he looked – sunny, rich and handsome. Gilbert hated him. 

“Oh, don’t worry. There’s no chance of you dying by my hand. I still need you to guide my way.”

“You trust me?”

“Not at all!” Carriedo said cheerfully. “But I understand what you’re getting at. Continue.”

Gilbert took a deep breath.

“So, now that we’ve established that neither of us has a death wish… You’ve got to change course – as in immediately, right now. You can’t sail to the merfolk isle.”

Lovino scoffed loudly. “What bullshit.”

Carriedo held up a hand to silence him, raising an eyebrow.

“Explain.”

Gilbert said in a rush, “These creatures aren’t human but they’re – they’re different, see? They don’t trust easy. It took me ages and ages and I nearly got drowned and skinned half a dozen times a piece but – they’ll rip you apart if they think you’re hostile. They have a sense for these things, you know! And they’re a lot stronger than you think. Everyone on this ship will die if you stay your course.”

Feliciano made a small, nervous sound, covering his mouth with both hands. 

“He’s lying,” said Lovino automatically, eyes narrowing as he stood up and made his way to the desk. “Antonio, you don’t really believe –”

Again, the hand. Lovino cursed sharply but fell silent once more.

“I believe you, Gilbert,” said the Spaniard, in his mild, mellow voice. “Or, rather, I have no reason to doubt your expertise on this issue. But that puts me in a very difficult position, you see. How am I to complete my mission if I cannot reach the shore?”

“Let me –”

“He’s just trying to trick us into getting off the ship!” Lovino exclaimed furiously. 

“Lovino, when you are captain, you can make these decisions on your own,” said Antonio, eyes flashing slightly. “But until then, you are in no position to order me around. Feliciano, take your brother and leave us.”

Feliciano did as he was told, speaking in a softly soothing voice as he led his agitated brother away. At the door, Lovino snarled about how much he hated to be touched and yanked himself away, rushing ahead. The sound of the boy storming off seemed to rattle the entire hall but Feliciano paused, glancing between Gilbert and Carriedo with a sad, almost gentle expression on his face before the door clicked shut.

Carriedo sighed.

“I’m not their father,” he said thoughtfully, “nor their brother. They know that, and usually it’s fine, but they’ve got to learn to respect me as captain. Sometimes I worry if I’ve done the right thing by taking them in, you know. I think it would’ve been easier if they were younger, I think. I’ve always been good with children but at this age, there’s not much I can do, you know?”

It made Gilbert profoundly uncomfortable to hear this for some reason. He didn’t want to like or sympathize with Carriedo, knowing what he was capable of. He wished that Carriedo hadn’t been so generous and left those boys back in Italy. It would’ve been easier on the both of them.

“Sorry!” said Carriedo, seeming to come back to himself. “Please, continue.”

Again Gilbert, swallowed around the lump in his throat.

“Look, if you’re – if you’re really determined to see this through,” he said, “then you’ve got to let me in on the plan. I know this island and the finfolk. If you want to survive, you’ve got to let me handle the big stuff.”

“Such as?”

“What are you planning to use to catch one of these things?” Gilbert asked. “A net? A spear? And how will you get the thing back to Spain? You haven’t thought about any of this, have you? You could kill the creature if it’s not handled properly and I know you want to bring it back alive.”

Carriedo seemed to consider this for a moment.

“Very well,” he said. “You have my attention. But what’s in it for you?”

Honestly, Gilbert replied, “Surviving. That’s all.”

Carriedo smiled, apparently pleased with this new development.

“You’re a smart man, you know. Tell me what I need to do.”

* * *

When Arthur came back to the shore, Francis was already on the dock with Alfred and Michela hovering in the surf nearby. Mathieu would resurface as soon as he made his way back through the reef’s tunnels but Arthur disliked the idea of having all three of the young merfolk out here at a time like this. The sky was as clear and lovely as it had ever been – no sign of storms. The sea stretched out to the far horizon and it occurred to Arthur that he had no idea how much of this water that the merfolk actually controlled or where the nearest island was. Perhaps all of this was simply a graveyard for ships and sailors who strayed off the standard paths. 

“Bonnefoy!” Arthur called as he made his way across the sand. 

“Ah, so you’ve heard,” said Francis, grim. “The enemy ship –”

“Rescuers.”

For a moment, the two of them stared at each other.

“An enemy?” Arthur repeated. “What in the name of sanity are you on about?”

“You cannot possibly be so naïve as to think that these are our saviors!”

Arthur glanced down at Alfred, who was watching him with wide, careful eyes as he always did.

“What did you see?”

Alfred shivered and signed frantically.

_Humans saw me. Threw things at me and yelled. Loud sounds._

That certainly explained the things that Mathieu had told him earlier. Arthur’s heart filled with pity and concern; he crouched down to be at his eye level.

“Are you hurt, lad?”

Alfred shook his head but his lips were trembling. Trying to stay strong though he’d clearly suffered a scare. A cursory glance revealed that he wasn’t injured but he held his arms close to his chest, like he was still on the defensive.

Arthur reached out and put a hand on his head. 

“This is why we don’t like it when you venture out past the reef,” he said sternly. Alfred blinked up at him with watery eyes. “You’re taking a lot of risks by going near humans. They’re not like us, you see? Promise to be more careful in the future.”

The boy smiled earnestly, and Arthur felt lighter than he had in years. 

Above him, Francis said, “And you still think that these are not enemies.”

Scowling, Arthur got to his feet. “Humans are afraid of things they don’t understand. Not everyone can be as idiotic and trusting as you, frog-eater. Amazing that you ever managed to be successful as a pirate.”

“I would never hurt a child,” said Francis stiffly. “Nor a person who did not deserve it.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Well, I’m sure that the children whose parents you and your crew slaughtered are very thankful for sparing their wretched lives.”

“You –”

For the first time since their shipwreck, Francis seemed genuinely angry. Arthur couldn’t begin to hide his astonishment. This was beyond the haughty outrage or his smug taunting; there was a fire in Francis’s eyes that made them dark, an iron set to his jaw that made him look harder, fiercer. His hands had curled into fists at his side. 

And then, in a flash, that was gone, too.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Hopeless Englishman. Besides,” he added, his voice dark and defeated. “What does it matter if they are friends or enemies out there? The mermaids will destroy them as they destroyed us.”

At this moment, Mathieu reappeared in the distance, coming to join them all on the dock.

Arthur’s sharp eyes scanned the horizon, looking for any sign. It was a quiet day, barely a breeze to fill the silence. No songs – and no sign of the ship. How far out had Alfred been swimming? Or was it already too late to save the other ship?

“They’ll come,” said Arthur. “You never know. Perhaps we just need to wait. Keep a weather eye and all that.”

Francis’s expression was hard. “I have no desire to watch this – this massacre.”

“Fine,” said Arthur, sitting down. “Go, then. I’ll stay just in case.”

But Francis didn’t move.

“You know,” he said. “I do not understand you at all. One minute you are telling me that there is no such thing as a love that lasts and the next, you are sitting out in the hot sun and waiting for a ship that may not come. What are you, Arthur Kirkland? Will you ever tell me?”

Arthur didn’t dignify that with an answer, and after a moment, Francis walked away with a sigh.

The breeze rushed over the island, cooling the air briefly and ruffling Arthur’s hair. There was an unfamiliar ache in his chest, but he didn’t owe a pirate any explanations for his behavior. A cold hand came to rest on his knee. Alfred looked up at him in question. Arthur patted his hand and said, “I know, my boy. I don’t understand it, either.”

They waited.

* * *

As the men of the Nabia prepared Gilbert’s sailboat for the drop, Carriedo went over his list of instructions. “How long will it take for you to reach the island?”

“From here?” Gilbert tried to come up with a realistic lie. “Two days, maybe three.”

“And for these supplies?” 

“There’s a couple of other islands nearby,” said Gilbert, lying again. “But you’ll have the best luck here –” He pointed to the farthest possible island. “If you’re lucky, Yao and the Pearl should still be there. He can help you find what you need.”

Carriedo smiled with all his teeth, and Gilbert was made aware once again of how close he was playing it. Yao had only been in the Caribbean for the briefest of times and the last Gilbert had heard, he’d retired from piracy and gone back to his homeland. His famed _Yellow Pearl_ was now in the hands of an apprentice, who had last been spotted in the Sea of Japan. He had no idea if Carriedo suspected him or not, or what he’d do once he realized that Yao wasn’t going to provide him with the medicines and materials that Gilbert had requested. The list was genuine – things he’d used in the past to care for sick merfolk, or to transport sensitive goods on his smuggling runs – but whether or not he’d actually be able to get the items depended entirely on Carriedo’s wit and resourcefulness. 

He’d said that he needed Gilbert alive, but with this much information…

Gilbert shook off the thought before it had a chance to set root in his mind. He’d always been at his best when he simply forged ahead, following the flow of the tides and the changes in the wind. There was no time for worrying. 

“Ready for you, Mr. Beilschmidt!” said Feliciano brightly, gesturing to the rigged sailboat. “Plenty of water and a few spare provisions!” 

Gilbert pressed his lips together.

“Well, best be off! No time to waste when you’re waiting on the queen, eh?”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Carriedo, watching Gilbert climb back into the sailboat. “Remember our timeline?”

“Yeah, yeah, keep your hat on.”

Carriedo smiled.

“Prepare to cast off, boys!” he called. To Gilbert, he added, “Two weeks. We’ll come for you – no matter where you try to run.”

Before Gilbert could reply, the rigging went slack and he dropped hard into the sea. 

A wave rolled over and crashed into him as he toppled back from the force of impact, and when he sat up – sputtering – he saw that half the crew of the Nabia was leaning over the side, laughing at him. Carriedo leaned on his elbows, a lazy smile on his face. Only Feliciano seemed to be genuine in his excitement, waving as if he were seeing off an old friend.

“Have a safe trip!”

Gilbert spat, wiped his mouth, and seized his oars. The wind was too light to use his sails for now. But he was strong – even if the wind didn’t pick up later in the night, it would still only take him a day at most to reach the shore. 

He just hoped that Bonnefoy and Kirkland hadn’t killed each other yet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise it's me~ Happy Valentine's Day!!
> 
> Arthur's not really much for self-reflection, I think, which is why I like writing him so much. He's practical but complicated - and I think Francis might struggle with that a little. He's really grown fond of Arthur but Arthur's not quite at the point where he's ready to allow Francis access to the vulnerable parts of him. Then again, Francis is keeping his own secrets... but that's for next chapter. 
> 
> I may go back and edit the last chapter a little more, since I struggled with it quite a bit. It's very transitional, and I always feel like I struggle with writing my transitions. Anyway, I hope you are all still enjoying this fic - we're getting to some parts that I'm really excited to write (including the reason why I initially upped this fics rating from T to M lmaoo) 
> 
> Please tell me what you think and I'll catch you next time!!


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